


More Fair Than Thoughts Of Mortal Men

by cryptonomicon (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Thor (2011)
Genre: Battle Scenes, Canonic Loopholes, Community: norsekink, Crossover, Epic Fantasy Violence, Fantasy, Kink Meme, M/M, Other, depictions of war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:59:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cryptonomicon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a grim ruling and punishment from Asgard, Loki is sent far afield into the the hidden clefts of the Nine Realms to lick his wounds and atone for his misdeeds. But by fate or luck he lands in a long-forgotten side to the Midgardian realm. Graced with the company of a man who knows his pain, he delves deeply into the wars of the remaining peoples against the growing darkened glow that shadows the East. And though he does not initially intend to stay, he finds more than one hook that keeps him rooted to the affairs of this Middle Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following prompt from the norsekink community on LiveJournal:
> 
> "Preferably slash (especially angsty, comforting, romantic slash). Basically, Loki lands on Middle Earth and they bond over their daddy issues. Bonus if Loki is mistaken as an elf at first because Faramir thinks he's the most beautiful creature he's ever set eyes on."
> 
> PS: I am the author anon and will be linking the continuation of this story from LJ to AO3 shortly.

Loki understood better than most scholars in Asgard that the great Tree was not a flat figure in the universe. Its center shape was a map, yes, and showed paths between the great and powerful stars. Greatest of all which realms were named after. But within each realm and star itself, there was dimension and depth greater than even Heimdall's eye could see. Perhaps if there were many of the great Watcher, all manner in every layer of fabric that made the clothed being of the complete universe could be watched and understood. But Heimdall could only see the "all" that Odin commanded him to.

And it was Loki's greatest and most terrible secret that it was in the other "alls" of the universe in which he hid from his father and the shortcomings of his great Asgardian people whenever he saw it fit to be alone.

So it was to one of these terrible pockets he fled after his fall from the heights of the Asgardian bridge. Destruction rippled the core of the universe, and in the discord, it was easy for Loki to pierce through into another sheet of existence, like a needle in the dark.

But that process drained much of him, and left him in darkness until his body could recover itself. But he knew the extent of his talents, and though he had been partially expended in his meaningless squabble with Thor, he was not drained enough for it to be a danger to him.

Unless, perhaps, he landed in a place suffering under its own dangers. But he could do naught until he awakened, and when he did, he knew immediately that at least he had not been in a terrible amount of peril. If he had been, surely he would have been dead by then.

The morning he awoke to was crisp with a passing rain, a winter rain judging by the sharpness in the smell. But it was not biting cold: just cool enough for a stray breeze, like the one caught in the banners licking the sky outside, to chill the skin. He lay in a side chamber facing an open pavilion, smooth columns the only door between he and the dim green lawn outside. Around with the scent of rain there was the far of odor of needled trees, and the earthen fume of wet stone.

He sat up slowly, noting with pleasure that his body was not damaged. Tired indeed, but unscathed. Save for perhaps a bit of discomfort at the crown of his head, which he ignored in favor of standing quietly. The worn floor was cool where his feet touched it as he padded out of the small room. There was a heavy curtain pulled to the far corner of the room, but little else decorated it save the bedding he had been resting in.

When he strode out into the courtyard, the world opened up. The sky, slowly stretching from gray to pale blue as the rain whisked away, opened wide above him. Towering mountain peaks blocked his view to the right, and far off in the distance ahead another range gnawed at the horizon. A deep shadow lurked over the range in the distance, and even far away as the great strokes of lightening split the black cloud struck a lingering fear in him.

Old evil dwelt there, he felt. And from the tips of his hair to his toes he could feel it crawling across the land with greedy fingers. No evil here indeed. There was great evil, it seemed. Perhaps far greater than even he had ever seen, for it felt descended. An evil born of greater evils, and with the fuel of all of its predecessors driving the crushing force behind it.

"I do not know this place," Loki said to himself. He could feel his brows draw on his face, and he scowled. Here he thought he knew all folds of the realms. But no land he had scoured over ever reeked with such conflict as this. Yet nor was this a new world, for he felt in it a deep reverberating sound. It was the sound of creation, deep down beneath his feet, and the sheer concussion of it curried favor to the idea that the world was very old indeed.

"That rings true," a clear voice said from behind him. He resisted the urge to whirl in a start, but turned quickly in his surprise nonetheless. He had not seen any other in the other chambers adjoining the courtyard, nor had he heard anyone enter. "For none in this place know you."

As it was, a man stepped out of the shadow of a column to face him. He had been there the whole time, Loki wagered, for even in standing he was completely silent. Not even the assassins of Asgard could manage such a feat without either great frustration or death. A human he looked, but he poised himself carefully unlike most mortals, as a hunter shifting through the mists of a wood.

Which, in all truth, made sense, for Loki had seen around them on the slopes of the great mountain foot they were perched on a forest. Hunter, perhaps this man was, but a Ranger seemed more likely. Hunters sometimes made noise to startle their kills. Rangers moved without leaving sign that they had passed, and Loki knew if the man wasn't in front of him he would go back to disappearing.

Loki did not recognize the faded tree that the man's tunic was emblazoned with, nor did he ask how he had come to be out of his own armor.

"I suppose as a stranger, and likely a prisoner, it may be in vain to ask where I am," he said to the Ranger. Weaponless, armorless, and nigh almost powerless, he had no chance of defeating the man save for brute strength. And he doubted that would get him far, not with the man with a sword at his hip.

The man's keen gray eyes looked at him curiously. "You are no prisoner here," he said. "Though many of my company wish you to be."

Loki's eyebrows rose at that. "Justifiably, I presume."

"In their eyes perhaps." The man shrugged a shoulder, his sage colored cloak unfurling around him. "But in my eyes this is not the case. And they will obey my orders for trust that my observations see what they do not. Though in you they question what is to be seen, and in such dark days they are not to be blamed for their suspicions."

Loki looked back to the clouds in the east, under which a far off red glow lurked. "Dark days indeed." He looked back to his consort. "But what observations have you of me that stay your hand? Surely if distrust was so rampant your blade would happily be whetted against enemy blood."

"Ah," the fair man said, a faint and almost imperceptible smile on his face, "but an enemy you are not. For ne'er have I ever, in all my great and many wanderings and battles, seen armor such as yours. Nor is your kind familiar to me, for though you are no elf as I had first thought, you are not a man of the South or the East. And your face is too fair for the men that remain in the North."

"And I am no man of your own company," Loki supplied, his eyes lingering on the silver tree adorning the man's breast. "So, Leader of some Company, who am I?"

Silence settled about them for a moment, and far away the shrill exalt of an eagle echoed against the mountains. "If any guess were mine," the man said, "I would say you were a figure of legend. Fair and ancient you feel, with music about you that runs deeper than any elf magic. I would say you were one of the Valar, if any of their blessed kind were still among us. But they are no longer, so I cannot say who or what you are."

"Which you have come to ask of me."

"Yes." He crossed his arms over his chest, and took lazy steps into the grass where Loki stood. "So if you tell me your name, I will tell you where you are." The wind curled into the courtyard, brushing the Ranger's mousy hair into his face so that Loki could not see his eyes.

He considered his options. If even he knew not where he was, then it was highly unlikely that Odin would ever find him. And when he left there was little chance of him ever returning, or of anyone else from Asgard ever following in his footsteps. Any raiment he left behind here would likely go unseen for the rest of eternity, and any connection with the other nine realms forever unseen. Risk in this venture on a large scale seemed mild.

Besides: his own name could not hurt him.

"My name is Loki," he answered, which seemed to please the man somewhat. He nodded, leaning against the carved rail that enclosed the yard from the lower levels of the small city as he seemed to think. The pause did not make Loki question the truth of his promise, for it looked merely that the man was searching for the proper words.

"And at the moment, you are in the city of Amon Din in the kingdom of Gondor. Where what little of Numenor's kingdom remains in Middle Earth."

Loki would have cursed Midgard until Ragnarok came if he wasn't so interested in everything the man had just said. Apparently the history of this Middle Earth might be a great bit more interesting than Midgard's own, which was full of only selfish consuming violence towards people who were but different faces of themselves. Somewhere small in him a memory stirred, but he could not grasp it quite yet for risk of smoldering it completely.

Apparently catching Loki's somewhat vacant expression, the Ranger laughed. "Which, from the look of it, only tells you very little. But I fear I am no laureate of ancient history. I am but a Captain, and that is all I can offer you."

"Is it?" Loki inquired, his voice betraying what he had really intended. The question was meant to be just that; but something in him made him pitch his voice low and lilting. He really didn't have much interest in what the Captain from Gondor could offer him... or was he? There as a small transparent lie in the Captain's statement, and with a quick glance at the man's hands Loki could see that he was not merely the warrior that he painted himself to be. There was a tenderness about the tips of his fingers that most men didn't carry: it was almost always the sign of a scholar, or one with a great respect for books. So this Captain, regardless of whether or not he was the best of their laureate, was at least a man of reading.

The young man looked back at him questioningly, but in his eyes there was something intrigued that was shining. He wet his lips before he spoke next, seemingly wanting to be very careful with what came out of his mouth. It was likely a wise choice: many others had made the mistake of not doing so in Loki's company and had more than once suffered because of it. "To my knowledge." His voice was quiet, but his eyes strong and defiant.

Loki straightened up, taking a deep breath of the clean air and looking out at the landscape fleetingly before looking back to the Gondor Captain. "Then I believe that this may be an opportunity for both of us to expand on our knowledge," he said, looking sidelong at his guard. "But, respect and dues aside, I cannot do that always calling you Captian." He paused, chuckling low and letting a smile tilt his lips. "Or perhaps you would like that."

"No," the man replied with a smile that said much. He looked at Loki's face for a long moment, as if etching it into his memory. "I am Faramir, son of Denethor."

"It is my honor, Faramir, son of Denethor," he said with a short bow. He may not have meant it, but if he played his role correctly, something fortuitous could come of all the mess that had been made. Short-lived most likely, but at least he would do his best to make it pleasant for himself as he healed and tried to plot out what he would make of his future.

A warm hand at his elbow brought him up from his bow, and they looked face to face closely for the first time. Loki would never forget it throughout all of his planned and unplanned future. "Nay, Loki, I believe the honor is mine."


	2. Part I

Loki was strange by every account Faramir could think of. He was taller than most men: leaner, and fairer in an obscure way. And though his tongue seemed acclimated to the Southron speech, there was a foreign sound to it always. As if the Common Tongue, or any tongue of Middle Earth, were new to him. But he read and spoke with as much efficacy and fluency as even the most learned of men he had met, more so even if one counted how quickly he learned whatever was presented to him. Entire tomes and maps he could memorize in minuscule periods of time, and could recite them flawlessly from memory upon even passing askance.

But there was something deeper in Loki that was queer; something deep under his skin and into his bones where only starlight could touch. For all his calmness of character, there was always a roiling storm in his green eyes, and Faramir always felt as if the man were but a stray moment away from unleashing it upon whomever he chose. For a time he was uneasy with his guest as they kept him held in Amon Din because for a time Faramir feared his decision of letting the man live.

He himself had never met the elfin people that dwelt in Lothlorien, a presence in Middle Earth unable to be ignored though they were, but the tales of the midwives of Minas Tirith told of two great and powerful elf-lords, under whose power all fell once under the boughs of the mallorn. None escaped. The tales told that within them still dwelt the ancient and terrible greatness of beings from the Elder Days, whose magics were as a timeless string of music from the time before the World was sung out of the Void.

Though Loki shared with them the fairness of his features, he shared none of their supposed elfin lightness. As such, his dark and fearful beauty, for handsome did not for his presence do justice, kept many silent from the topic of him. Their unease made Faramir afraid as well, until he realized that as a Captain of the Men of Gondor, he was responsible for a higher and more responsible example. They still knew nothing of Loki, or close to. But even as the darkness crept in from the East with each night, and suspicions of him grew, Loki showed no signs of dishonesty or malcontent.

It was not until Faramir visited him one evening, after a night of tumultuous dreaming, that he began to reaffirm his faith in his initial decision. They had left Loki in the watched courtyard, and tonight for the first time the man had drawn the thick curtain to cover his quarters from the late winter chill. He had otherwise kept them cast open, even when he meditated in what Faramir could only guess to be his habit of sleep, regardless of how his flickering green eyes never closed. This night he was not in his cloaked chamber, instead standing on bare feet next to the edge of his balcony that hung out over the lower rungs of the city. He was clad in only one of the long pale tunics they had given him in spite of the chill, and a pair of sage leggings that clung all the way to his ankles.

Though Faramir had managed to startle him that first day, he had never managed to do so again. It was known to his company that he walked far more carefully than others, yet still he could never manage to find Loki unawares again. That night was no different, for as he entered and strode out to bathe himself in the fading starlight, Loki turned his head to glance at him in an almost sudden snap of movement.

When Loki looked, Faramir could tell that his glassy eyes saw little. As swiftly as they had swung to him they turned swiftly back to the landscape, ensconced in shade but whispering the tune of a far-off wind. Loki was obviously distracted, but he was far from careless. Faramir to caution to walk up slowly to stand next to him to avoid any startled cognizant reaction.

"Eärendil is veiled," Loki said softly. It was the first time in nearly days that Faramir had heard him speak, for whenever reports came in on Loki's doings and whereabouts, he was always where they instructed to keep him, poring over maps or the pages of volumes long neglected. They had all been careful to give him none of their militant maps, but he seemed to have no interest in them. All materials, abused or well kept, found new love and tenderness in his care. "Gone is he behind the veil of shadow."

He had looked to the stranger curiously. Loki truly sounded elvish for a moment, and it startled him how perfectly he was able to mimic a dialect that Faramir had never heard but knew implicitly. In days passing he had also come to perfect his Gondorian accent, so it was probably truly to be of little surprise. "The light shall come again," he replied, and at that Loki seemed to come back down from the heavens he was ensconced in and actually look to him.

The green of his eyes seemed sharpened in the half-darkness, as a great sword whetted against a stone. "It is late in the day, Captain," he said, his voice rumbling in its unnaturally low pitch. Faramir had not yet heard him speak like this, and he doubted others had either. Regardless, he took the change to be one of a show of faith in his character, and settled himself as he could with that. "Nigh is it almost early in the morning. What brings you here at such a dark hour?"

"I refuse to keep you here." Loki's eyes were all that showed his intrigue, but they did so with brutal efficacy. "Six days now you have spent in this place under guard, and not once have you proven unworthy of trust. There is but one thing that keeps me from releasing you, and that is the truth that all we know of you is your name, and that you are strange to us and likely Middle Earth."

Faramir paused for a moment, considering his words very carefully. He'd heard more than one tale of Loki turning his men's words on their heads in reckless dalliances previous, and he was not about to underestimate the man and make the same mistake. "And, I may wager only that wherever you are from, it is not only far beyond our shores." He looked up to the wheeling scatter of light in the navy sky whose naked glory was not disturbed by the veil of the East. "But that your home is far beyond our stars, for even those were unfamiliar to you when you arrived."

When he looked back, Loki was smiling thinly. It made him look terribly aged, and for a moment he was almost startled by it. He thought he glimpsed a hundred thousand lifetimes in the dark rings beneath the other man's eyes, but when Loki tilted his head the dark smudges were bathed in starlight and washed away from him. When he spoke, the impression seemed as a dream forgotten upon waking. "How do you come to guess that?" he asked.

Faramir sat himself on the stone rail, thinking carefully. "The beacon of Amon Din is the first of dozens that stretch between the kingdoms of Gondor and Rohan. It is lit when Gondor is in need of aid; or it comes to be lit if Rohan is in need of aid." He looked to Loki with sharpened eyes as his thoughts collected. "The night that you were discovered, I saw a sparkling glow above the city. I thought at long last that my father, Gondor's Steward, was hailing Rohan, for our need is truly mounting. It was no beacon that was lit that night, much against my hopes."

Loki's face remained neutral, save for his eyebrows which were slowly drawing together, darkening his eyes.

"When I truly looked, it was as if the stars had opened in a great window over the west. Through which window ribbons of red and gold light gleamed, like a thousand embers thrown up amongst the winking stars they sat with. The thunder of Mordor seemed like a quiet rustling compared to the roar the sky gave when the rift closed again." He took a breath for himself, a small tremor in his hand at the memory. He had never had a more celestial experience in his life, and he did not know if he ever wanted to have another such as that. "I discovered you in the forest some hours later, thinking you dead until I found you warm and breathing in spite of the damage to your armor."

Loki sighed for a long instant, blinking slowly as if to relieve himself from sight for a time. Faramir knew he didn't need to bother asking the question of Loki's true origin; it was stated clearly enough, and Loki was no fool. But he was also no knave, and Faramir could not make him speak if he did not wish to. His standing as a Captain of Gondor, he felt, would hold little sway over whatever Loki truly was. He could merely hope that Loki's apparent good grace towards them all thus far would not wane just yet.

"The kingdom in which I was raised is a place of towering gold palaces, with spires that shimmer with silver. Where the light skirts over the waters in early morning, and the green of all growing things is unyielding." He looked away, his eyes still closed. "But that kingdom is not _my_ kingdom. And though I was raised as a son of the king, and led to believe that one day it could indeed be my kingdom, it was truthfully never to be so." A cruel scowl curled his lips over his teeth, and the image of a striking serpent flashed across his mind.

"My brother, the golden warrior, was always destined for the throne. But, I always respected my brother, and our differences." Loki let out a stiff breath through his nose. "Though I became aware over time that there were too many of them for us to ever love one another, I never wanted his position. Ever only did I seek to be his equal. But as he went chasing the shadows back into the darkness, hammer stroke by hammer stroke, I remained, searching in the darkness for where there could be light." Loki shook his head, his lips trembling as his teeth clenched.

Faramir would have been stunned by such emotion coming from such a seemingly calm person, but the story rang truly with himself and his own familial strife. He knew how painful loving a brother bound for greater things than yourself could be. It was difficult to imagine the figure of Loki's brother; if he was so superior as Loki claimed. That jealousy, and that love, were the deepest of abysses in the heart that could not be filled, covered, or bridged. He knew how deep and emotional those dark places of his own heart were, and could only scarcely imagine the depths to which Loki's heart was dug with those same wounds.

"All of it was a lie." Loki's long hands were clenched on the stone railing as his tone wound into a furious hiss, and the Gondorian legitimately feared that the man would crush the stone beneath his hands. "I was never my 'father's' son. I was a stolen piece of history for him to covet like the other spoils of his blasted war. And he would have _used_ me to create the world he wanted for his true son, rather than try to make a world where both of us could serve together." The green of Loki's eyes danced like a wicked fire, chaotic and gleeful, but Faramir found himself unafraid: there was yet temperance in Loki's eyes, even if it took the shape of an almost crushing despair.

"So I left," he continued, his voice growing breathless and almost humored as his grip loosened and the anger abandoned him. There was no humor in his face, and Faramir could feel there was none in his heart. He felt his own heart hollow in empathy. "In a time of chaos I attempted as only I knew how to prove myself, at long last, to my father." He let out a wheezing laugh that made his eyes squint for pain of feigning such a horrible sound. "I failed. I fell, and I fled."

His gaze returned to Faramir himself at last as his focus returned from the memories still dancing behind the glassy shield now erected over the deepest fathoms of his eyes. "Does that answer your question?"

Without thinking Faramir reached out, and rested his hand on Loki's high shoulder. For a split second the man looked about to flinch, as if afraid of being struck. It made Faramir wonder why, but he knew that it was too much for him to ask just now. But Loki did not recoil when Faramir's fingers rested gently on the pale tunic draping his shoulders.

"I will say yes where others would say no," he replied softly, trying to keep his own heart steady as his face succumbed to a wavering smile. It was all that he could think to do to offer comfort. "For, let me tell you, Loki, of my own brother: Captain-General, and Steward-prince of the White Tower. When you hear of him you shall know why it is that I trust your honesty."

Genuine surprise overtook Loki's face for a fleeting moment, before he smiled slowly to mirror his companion. And this time, Faramir was pleased to notice, the smile did not age him.


	3. Part II

The morning that rose swiftly after Faramir's late visit brought good news with the first rays that rose in the east. For with them came Faramir once more to his private little enclave, announcing that his fate, a truly questionable thing up until that time, had been decided.

To Loki's luck, it had been decided in Favor of the Steward son's assessment of him, which Loki himself had proven true to probably without meaning to. By staying put, asking little, and not acting terribly strange, because apparently the amount of reading he did was not queer to the Men of Gondor as it was to the Warriors of Asgard, he had justified his innocence until in the future he showed otherwise.

Part of him waited eagerly to be able to dash their hopes, but it was outweighed heavily by the reigning part of him that looked forward to proving their trust well-founded. He appreciated that they didn't just trust him on principal; they trusted him on logic, and though Loki knew that they would never know everything about him, especially not after a score of days in his company, he knew also that they took heed to this. They knew that much about him was still a mystery, as well as they knew he could turn on them at any time. But they had chosen to err on the side of caution, which, having had time to execute itself had shown them nothing to fear.

Faramir's smile when he delivered the news was also enough to get the weight of Loki's intentions pushing to forge more strongly the good path of this opportunity that lay before him. Because, as it seemed to Loki, the young man had suffered much in his short mortal life, and was brightened easily by any lessening in his suffering. Few wouldn't be, if in a similar situation.

Loki knew from personal experience; because he was getting the same relief from essentially all of his fortune in Middle Earth so far. And he felt lighter than he had in hundreds of years simply because, if only principally, there was someone who understood his plight and _trusted_ him to some reasonable extent.

"I would say you are a free man," the Captain said jokingly, but Loki could see a note of seriousness mixed in with some lingering trepidation of his.

The same trepidation had been in his eyes the night before when he had visited, and Loki could think only of the strange call echoing on the winds from the northeast early that morning that had sung through Amon Din. Loki likened it to the sound of a great horn blowing, but could not fathom from what distance it could beckon so clearly. The winds and air danced strangely in Middle Earth, and carried great things many leagues in order to be heard by the proper audience. It all had an elvish feel to it, though not of any elves he had ever met in his wanderings about the realms.

"Then what would you call me to be?" Loki asked, and Faramir did not look away when Loki turned to face him with a searching gaze. "Seeing plainly that there is askance in your eyes."

The other man laughed quietly, looking away with a shake of his head. "You see far too smartly for some, Loki. Be wary of whom you speak freely with: some may not be as fearless as I when it comes to facing down your conversation."

Loki laughed lightly in response, then crossed his arms over his chest. "If I recall, twas not I who initiated. But as it remains, you have not answered my question."

It was his turn then to resist the urge to look away from the Captain then. His gray eyes were searching for something, and for once Loki was unsure what he would need to fabricate in order to give the young mortal what he was looking for. So for the time, he didn't fabricate anything, and let something neutral and natural linger about himself. He didn't need to pretend to be someone else, when no matter what person he chose to be, all would be of equal importance to Faramir.

"I would ask you to be my friend, and to ride with me. I could never force you, nor could I give you any reason why it would suit you better than some other choice." Loki did not laugh, nor did he turn away. He merely tilted his head and looked at his companion a bit more curiously. Was that really all that he wanted? Loki would have frowned at the simplicity of it, if it wasn't quite so pleasant to not have something impossible expected of him.

"I believe," he answered slowly, "that it is within my capacity to accommodate your wishes in my oh so busy schedule." He let himself smile mildly, finding he couldn't quite help it. "It would be an honor, Captain Faramir, Lord of Gondor, to ride at your side as a friend. If that is, you can find it in your resources to suit me in something other than tunics and leggings. I am sturdier than most of your men most likely, but nearly bare-skinned will not see me long into this journey."

The man before him sighed a bit and frowned in an annoyed huff. "I would have you garbed in your own clothing were any of it left, Loki. Sadly it seems what little of it remained is gone. It was looked at in an attempt to see if any of it could be repaired, but it was beyond our skill to mend I fear. But after it was examined much of it... well, disappeared. Unfortunately in a way that had nothing to do with magic I am sure." He looked to Loki with genuine regret in his eyes. "I am most sorry."

Loki shrugged, smiling mildly. "I really do not consider it much of a loss. I think it would be quite a useless endeavor for me to try to go ranging around Gondor in that golden monstrosity." Faramir laughed idly, seeming relieved that Loki had taken the tidings so well. "I only am concerned for what inventory you could keep that would even fit a man such as I."

Faramir nodded over his shoulder, bidding Loki to follow him out of the courtyard. He crossed it silently behind the Captain, thinking that it was likely the last time he ever would. He had been bare-foot for the majority of his time in Amon Din, having not had his boots returned to him in the time that he had been kept waiting. So for his first steps into the actual streets of Amon Din, he was bare on his feet. Thankfully the stone in the hall leading out to the street was smooth with wear, and even once out of the building the cobbles remained even and well trimmed. It was hardly an evil for him, though a little more improper than he liked.

"I do not believe that we will have as much trouble as you assume," he said as he lead them downhill towards the rest of Amon Din's commons. The tip of the hill where the beacon sat would not cast a shadow on them until evening. "We keep stores of supplies here for the troops that come in and out. Many of our men are chalked to keep the Great Western Road, and only wander in at need. But in these times they are hard pressed, and come back often."

"Ah," Loki replied, letting the sound linger on his tongue as his eyes flicked to the doorways of the houses. It seemed that he was somewhat of a spectacle; many women and children had assembled at their doorways for no apparent reason other than to look on as he walked by. "But they cannot waste another day's ride to Minas Tirith when all their paths lie northeast."

The Gondorian only hummed mildly in response. He seemed to take no heed of the quiet crowds lingering in the shadowed doorways, though Loki guessed that he knew they were there.

"There may not be many among us who are as tall or fair as you, Loki," the Captain continued, leading them down a more narrow street. The turn brought out a profound change in the air. It was darker down where they were going; warmer and thick with the smell of pressed leather and a tinge of ale underneath. "But Men of the West come in great many shapes and sizes. And, as Gondor has use for them all, I do not doubt that we shall at least be able to find you something suitable to your needs."

Loki declined to say more on the matter, but took the time to look bemused as they entered one of the squat stone buildings lining the downward sloping street. The smell of freshly cut leather permeated the dim little building, and Loki had to duck through some of the cloth swatches draped from the beams of the rafters to get through to where Faramir was leading them.

As they progressed, the swatches of cloth slowly got less luxurious and more practical. They increased in number until slowly pieces of armor and mail were strewn about them, leaving the more banal pieces behind in favor of what was actually needed for the soldiers.

A few more paces revealed from the patchwork tapestry of clothing a work table, strewn with all manners of items in need of mend or repair. An old weathered man sat hunched over the far side of it from them, hammering a fastening stud into the padding on the inside of a leather chest plate. His gnarled hands didn't struggle with the difficult task, and before they had the chance to even announce their presence he became aware of it himself and looked up. His eyes glimmered like deep coals in the dark as he gazed over at the two of them.

"Loki," Faramir said, stepping aside to reveal the two of them to each other, "this is Carebryn; Master Tradesman of Amon Din. He will be overseeing your outfitting for the journey ahead." The Captain passed a searching look around what little could be seen of the rest of the building that housed the tradesman's menagerie. "Or perhaps he may be seeing to it himself, as it looks like his help is all but vanished. They haven't gone off to confront the Enemy without me, have they?"

The grizzly old man let out a growling laugh. "Sneezing is beyond em' without ya, Faramir. They wouldn' go marching off to war without you even if the Nine were sittin' on their beds askin' for a kiss good-night." Carebryn's beady eyes bore down on Loki then. "An' the only reason my shop is plumb empty is because all your talk of this longshanks Loki spooked 'em off." The old man looked him up and down, and Loki would have been flattered if he weren't quite positive the man was seriously measuring him up from a distance.

"Though I must admit, Faramir," he continued after a moment, turning back to the chest plate he had nearly completed. "Out o' all the longshanks I seen in my day, he might be one o' the longest. You were fair on that account, anyway."

The young Captain was grinning when Loki looked back to him. "Then you will suit him up for me?"

"A'course," the old man answered gruffly. "You bring him to me now and think I can't get 'im properly dressed by dawn tomorra'? I might be short on weapons, Captain, but I ain't short on armor. 'Specially armor his size," Carebryn said with a nod at Loki.

Loki hummed for a moment before looking to Faramir. "I fear that at least some manner of weapon may be necessary," he said, to which Faramir nodded, apparently a bit worried about the prospect now that he was faced with it. Loki turned back to the tradesman. "May I guess that you examined my armor to see if any of it could be salvaged?"

The man's gray head bobbed. "I did, lad. Finest armor I ever seen, even all broken up as i'twas. Elvish it looked almost, but I don' see no pointy ears on ya." He gave a sigh. "But there was no fixin' it, an' for that I give ya my apologies. Not even the nice daggers ya had with ye could I mend me-self. They were so bent an' broken I was 'mazed one didn't skewer ya."

Faramir nodded, and looked apologetically to Loki. "As I said, the majority of the remains of your armor are gone now, not matter how nice they may have been. So for now you'll have to put aside that "golden monstrosity", as you put it, and take a likening to some of the rest of us." He turned to Carebryn. "Make sure he stays out of trouble, old man. I must organize the scouts that ride to Ithilien tomorrow ahead of us. Their journey today is to Osgiliath, and I mustn't delay them by pandering around here such as I would like."

Faramir's gray eyes strayed to Loki, lingering with warm apology. "And do try to keep yourself out of trouble. Carebryn has a sharp eye, but his pace has slowed with age, and you know it. I trust you will do something productive and help him with his tailoring of you."

Loki smiled slyly, even though he really meant no trouble just yet. "I will do my best, Captain," he said. Faramir left with a short bow, and the princeling was left with the tailor in the darkened corner of his workshop.

"You don' look much of a swordsman, though I don' doubt ya can handle one jus' fine." Loki looked back at the old man's drawn face a bit curiously. The comment seemed somewhat obscure. He arched one of his brows, begging the older gentleman to elaborate. "I need ta know what kind of weapons ya use if I am ta dress ya right."

Loki nodded, picking up one of the pieces on the wide wooden table that he actually recognized to be one of his own. Probably it was the only one left. But he ignored that thought, and handled the leather scabbard carefully as he examined it. It was indeed the one he kept under his armor at almost all times to hold his throwing knives, and he could see in places where the knives had broken and punched through the thick leather. "I may know how to handle a sword," he said after placing the tattered piece back down. He could enchant items to do many things, but he had a proclivity with metals more than fabrics, so he had little hope of fixing it himself unless he took the time to learn. "But it is not my preferred weapon."

"Thought not." The old man held at arm's length the plate he had been working on, glancing between it and Loki. When Loki tried to peer at it the old man just handed it to him, taking up the piece that Loki had just been examining instead. "The daggers that were in 'ere were for throwin' I wager, seein' as they weren't no hip daggers." Loki merely nodded as he turned to armor over in his hands. The padding on the back was thin, but there was a denseness to it that could make it quite effective.

"So yer more of a distance fighter then. An' with sharp eyes like yours I bet yer' a good shot."

Loki looked up to him with a wary glance, his attention distracted from the chest plate for a moment. Though, in all respect, it did deserve a good amount of attention: the craftsmanship was trumped any he had ever seen from a mortal man. "How can you know about my vision?" he asked, probably a bit more harshly than was necessary. But he always hated it when people were more shrewd than he anticipated, and he was not about to apologize.

Even though the old smith laughed then it did Loki little comfort. "Cause a look like that could pin a hawk in the sky a hundred leagues off," he said, shaking a heavily knuckled finger at Loki. "I know a sharp eye when I see one, Longshanks. Other lads round 'ere might be fooled if ye carry a sword at yer hip like the rest of 'em, but ye can' fool me."

Loki let a thin grin to his face. "Are all Gondorian elders so shrewd?" he asked, setting down the armor in his hands.

The hunched old man stood on the other side of the table, setting his tools and his pieces down as he looked about as if searching for something. "Men of the West have been foolish for too long," he said, and Loki could hear a tinge of regret in his voice. "What remains of the blood of Westernesse has to keep wise and give counsel wherever we can before we fade off entirely."

Carebryn waved a hand over his shoulder. Loki followed him as he ducked behind a curtain of light mail. "Come now, lad. We've got ta get you dressed for the march tomorra'. And we'll arm ye as best we can, but I fear we don' have any swords left suitable for ya."

Loki looked at him curiously as the man began to rifle through a stack of short leather undershirts, of the type presumedly that one wore under mail. "You run an armory for the armies of Gondor and you don't have any swords?" he asked, slightly appalled.

"I outfit one, yes I do," Carebryn answered, holding a dark shirt up and looking to Loki before putting it down again. "But that's the problem; all o' my swords are out in tha field gettin' used. I only ever see 'em when they come in for repair."

He handed a light shirt of pale leather to Loki as he moved onto a stack of mail tunics to his left. "But surely you have the supplies to make more weapons," he asked, rubbing the supple skin between his fingers. It was deer hide rather than some kind of cattle hide, but it had a sturdy look about it and didn't stretch when he pulled it.

"Aye, we do," Carebryn said with a short laugh. "But all the smiths are off ta war with the rest. They make new when they're 'ere, but they come less and less 'nymore. Just old Carebryn left to the forges and the smithing. And his old harms can't pound with a forge hammer like they used to."

Loki paused for a moment as the man continued to snuffle and grunt at the stacks of tunics, looking on as an idea slithered into his little head. "I will probably need a sword, all weapon preferences aside, won't I?" he asked.

"Wouldn' send a man out'a Amon Din without one, had I 'e choice," the man growled. "But, as I said; ain't got none left. I can fit ye with the best longbow I got, enough arrows to make any orc have nightmares, and a dagger sharp enough to cut stars out o' the day sky. Might even find ye a lance if we can even find ye a horse."

As much as Loki liked the sound of having a lance again, for he knew that he couldn't yet wield Gungnir or any other lance's full power in his less than stellar state, he knew that in the close-quarters combat that seemed to be coming, a sword would be nothing short of a necessity. His magic was still scattered amidst the stars, and though it was slowly amassing in him again, much of his most powerful battle magic would be a dangerous endeavor should he try at it currently. But there were lesser magics, lesser to him anyway, that he could manage safely in order to get what he needed.

"Would is be permissible if I made a sword?" Loki asked idly, flicking his fingers through the mail shirts to make it seem as if he were looking for himself. He really wasn't: he was just doing his best to make himself look busy in order to make the question seem more arbitrary than it probably was.

Carebryn apparently caught onto the lack of arbitrary nature in the question and stopped in his search for a proper mail shirt. His glinting eyes searched Loki's face suspiciously, before the barest wrinkles of a smile settled at the corners of his mouth.

"I'll let ye make a sword if I can watch, boy." He pulled out a mail shirt from the bottom of the pile he had just been leafing through and tossed it to him. "I want ta see what you make fer yerself, and make sure ya do it right so as Captain Faramir can't have my head for it later."

The Asgard princeling held up the mail tunic in the light of a low lantern that gave off a diffused glow through its dirtied glass. The deep green half of the tunic matched nicely the squared silver mail of the other side. It was an odd design, but he recognized it as a shirt designed for archers. The mail half guarded the side that held the bow, which in proper stance was furthest forward. The cloth half covered the draw arm, which needed more movement than the mail could allow. But the tunic didn't tie at the sides or in the back like others of a Gondorian style. Rather, it was a wrap-like apparatus, that was meant to be bound into place by a belt.

Which happened to be the next thing that Carebryn handed to him. He took it, examining the pieces collectively before looking back to the tradesman. He seemed far from finished as he glanced about the room searchingly, but didn't turn away from Loki as if waiting to hear his deliberation on the argument.

"We have an accord, Carebryn, Trade Master of Amon Din. So long as you find me a fitting pair of boots. I would rather not go walking, or even riding, around Gondor barefoot." That earned him a hearty laugh from the old man, which he took gratification in if only on the principal that it was the first person he'd made genuinely amused since he really couldn't recall when.

Ѻ I amar prestar aen. Han mathon ne nen. Han mathon ne chae. A han noston ne 'wilith. Ѻ

Loki didn't see Faramir until the next day, though he wasn't hard pressed by boredom in the other man's absence. He spent the majority of the day and well into the dusk at Carebryn's storehouse and smithy. At the end of it all he emerged feeling properly clothed for the first time in conscious memory of his time in Middle Earth. And he even noted the difference in attentions he got on his way back to the quarters he was sequestered in.

Armed with the weapons and clad in the garb of the Gondorian people, they barely had an eye raised at him as he walked past the still crowded doorways that lined the dimming streets of the beacon town.

He had risen long before sunrise to ponder over his fate, and consider carefully just how far he was willing to take this expedition into a war that was not his own. But even in his short time there, Middle Earth had caught his interest. Its people maintained it; driven by a failing glory and a will to pursue that which was better in life. And, under the great threat in the East, their courage shone through, especially in their leaders in a way that he had yet to observe elsewhere in men.

So by the time Faramir appeared to summon him, Loki had at least decided to ride with Faramir for as long as he pleased or was asked to. Though he would never admit it, he liked the liberty of being asked for his presence, rather than having his presence demanded or denied.

"I hardly recognize you," the Captain said when he entered to find Loki watching the stars fade beneath the gray curtain of morning. Loki turned to face him, but for a moment longer Faramir stood considering him. "Though you are clad in the garb Carebryn had in his stores, you fit naturally into pieces that no Gondorian could, or would ever choose wear." His gray eyes met Loki's. "So as much as you may look like us, you look no less yourself."

"You flatter, Captain of Gondor," Loki said, striding across the lawn knowing now at last that it truly was the last time he ever would. "As a master of words in my own tongue I would warn you to watch what you say, but I think that you are too deliberate a person to need that warning."

Faramir turned, and the two of them strode out into the quiet streets together. "I take any warning when it is given freely and soundly," Faramir said, sounding more serious than Loki had yet heard him, but puzzled all the same. "And though yours seems strange to me, I will heed it none the less."

The rest of their journey down the sloping streets of the city was in silence, their cloaks billowing out behind them, licking at the wind that curled up in whispers from the plains beyond. The sounds of men stirring in the buildings around them could be heard faintly in doorways as they passed, and Loki wondered why Faramir had risen him first.

Until he realized that unless, of course, there was some unspoken problem that had arisen during the night that needed attending to by their singular company. He glanced down at Faramir, his own brow furrowing.

"What is the matter?" he asked, hoping that Faramir would not mistake the seriousness in his tone. When Faramir remained serious, he knew that the man had not misinterpreted it for a personal query.

"I tried to arrange yesterday for a horse to be supplied for you, seeing as we can't have you walking when the rest of our company rides to Osgiliath. And though you may be light, one horse could not bear the weight of two men swiftly enough as we require," he explained, sounding irritated. "None were willing to let up their mounts, and though I can understand why in such a time of need, it is most troublesome to our deployment this morning."

Loki frowned as they exited the lowest portion of the spiraling city that wound up Amon Din's hillside. The thatched stables were down on the ground level, just inside the stone wall that brooked in the city. He could see that many of the beasts were out in the front yard, saddled and loaded, ready to leave.

"Troublesome indeed," Loki said, looking to the wooden gate that stood open in preparation for their departure. Two men stood on either side as sentries, wisely keeping out unwelcome visitors. A calm idea crept into Loki's mind, but he kept it to himself for a moment, unsure of its worth considering the odds that were against its success. But eventually, as he observed more and more how earnestly distressed Faramir seemed over the matter, he broke down on his skepticism.

"I have something I wish to try," he said, garnering the Captain's attention for a moment. When Faramir looked at him questioningly he nodded towards the gates to the city. Faramir walked behind him as they exited, the intrigued expression following the tail of Loki's forked cloak out of the city.

Loki walked them to the top of a nearby knoll, not far enough to warrant worry from the gate guards, but far enough so their voices would not carry. Faramir sidled up beside him as he stood looking out over the plains and the skirts of the Gray Wood and the Druadan forest that stretched towards them, encroaching on the gray line of the road in the distance.

Clearing his throat, Faramir voiced his impatience. "I understand it to be of your character to be curious, Loki, but this morning we haven't the time for your queer ways. Tell me what it is you wish to try." Despite his words there was a wondering little shine in his eyes that belied a patience for spectacles.

He kept his voice pitched low, but spoke clearly. "We are not horse lords, where I come from. But when fate allows us steeds it allows us ones of great power and mystery. Deep in our history, a horse came to serve a workman of great and terrible potential. The story around his presence is complicated, but he and I had, or, _have_ something of a connection of sorts." He tried to keep from smiling at his own beguiling use of understatements. "I was not fond of him being kept under lock and key, so I released him to the wilds of the World never to be bothered again by works of slave toil."

The Captain's face was lined with hints of both a frown and a smile, as if he were having trouble deciding which to show. "You think he may be in Middle Earth, then?"

Loki shrugged, his hood pooling around his neck. "I have not seen him since. And though his intelligence is not frightening or substantial, it is not to be underestimated. It is possible that he could come to many places of his own volition, regardless of whether or not I know how." Loki raised his hand to his mouth. "Seeing as few other options exist, I am willing to find out."

With that he pressed his little finger to the corner of his mouth and let out a whistle that wailed in a ringing falsetto pitch through the air. It echoed, almost with its own voice, off into the distance for a long time before falling back to silence.

Loki really wasn't expecting anything to happen. He'd tried the whistle a hundred times in dozens of different locations, but had never gotten a response. He had been glad in those instances; thankful that the steed had gone and left like he wanted him to. But now, among all these unfamiliar faces and uncertain ends, he could use a friend: even if it was just a strong-bodied horse.

But when an almost thunderous whinny echoed back at him from the low skirts of the Gray Wood some short distance off, he was left stunned, loathe as he may have been to admit it. For as surely as the sun was beginning to pierce through the haze of the morning, Svaðilfari, great gray thundering beast that he was, came running at full gallop from the darkened reaches of the edge of the wood.

Faramir stood beside him, equally silent and awestruck as the horse emerged. Loki wondered if he had been waiting there all the time while he had been in the city after seeing the crack open in the night sky, and wondered even more strongly how he had even come to be in Middle Earth to begin with. But for a moment all his questions were quelled by a warm pleasure.

Perhaps more often than Loki realized, his needs were looked after beyond his control. Svaðilfari proved that as well as any could have as he drew near, his great gallop slowing to a springing trot. His coat, still the deep gray that almost shone black in some light, caught the sunlight almost joyously, and his ears were perked forward as he seemed to skip to a halt excitedly before him.

He bobbed close to Loki before standing still, even then shifting on his feet in his apparent excitement. He bowed his great head, nuzzling Loki's chest and chuffing loudly against him. Loki really hadn't quite realized how big Svaðilfari was back in Asgard, but now with the Middle Earth comparisons close at hand and in mind, Loki was quite surprised to realize the difference. Long tall outsiders they both were, but he found he really didn't mind the company.

"Hello old friend," he said, combing his long fingers through the mane hanging over Svaðilfari's brow. The horse's great eyes looked at him, and with a snort began nudging his nose through Loki's hair. He let himself laugh lightly, allowing the affection for a moment before turning to Faramir.

Whose face, much to his amusement, was still completely dumbfounded. "Faramir, this is Svaðilfari. He has been my friend for many an age," he said, feeling almost sentimental as he brushed his hand along the horse's great neck. He could feel the steady thundering heartbeat against his hand, and he felt himself calmed. "And, it seems now, that our transport problem has been solved."

"It most certainly has," Faramir said, his voice oddly breathy as he took a step back as if to get a clear look at the two of them. He seemed wholly unable to believe his own eyes. "I think now our transport will be swift enough, if only by trying to keep up with you."

"Oh don't worry, Captain," Loki said, smiling at both Svaðilfari and the young Gondorian. "I promise not to leave you behind."


	4. Part III

It was several days before Faramir saw Loki again. In fair honesty that was due to his own machinations, but in equal honesty to himself it had not been his initial intention when he had sent Loki to attend and assist the scouts of his company in their searches around the bordering lands near Osgiliath. He had given the order, or, rather, in Loki's circumstance, _requested_ , in hopes that Loki would come and go on duty as the other men of his company did. Regularities, after all and to a certain extent, were what warmed mens' hearts when the world was in chaos.

When Loki failed to return from his first deployment duty, Faramir feared that his faith in the strange man was going to turn out to be unfounded after all. He continued to fear as the end of that day wore into grave evening, and even more so as his other scouts failed to return. Slowly, however, they began to trickle in from the outskirts of the wild. As each one entered well past the bounds of his required duties, a message was brought. And as each message came in, Faramir began to realize what it was that Loki had gone and chosen to do. He had gone above and beyond what was asked of him, or perhaps in truth just expedited the process, and had gone beyond the bounds of where his immediate scouts ranged.

For, when at last the final scout of the missing company rode in on a swift horse and with a set look on his face, it was relayed that Loki had ridden far into the northern wilds. Where, as Faramir knew, no infantry of his had yet penetrated alone. But information on that area was needed, for he had felt a shadow growing over it from the south since the days had begun to darken. And, though as the scout proclaimed, Loki had not gone so far as to be out of range of calling code, he had gone far enough to take far too long to get back to Osgiliath in time for any rest or refreshment.

Faramir had been flattered by the idea, but wished that the other man had chosen to stay when the evil tidings of the later night of that evening proved his restlessness grounded. In the time following he did his best to keep the news and the tidings close to him under his cloak, but the whispering amid his men was getting almost beyond bearing. He wanted, and needed if he was to go to the root of his issue, a friend by which he could stand without fear. For though his company was brave and trustworthy, they were not personal to him. He was their Captain, after all. He could brook no room for weakness.

Scouts returning from duties that day darkened the city with news of Loki's discoveries, and the tidings that all of them had been fearing from the beginning. According to the long-wandering scout there was a band of armored Harad marching up the road through Ithilien to the Gate of Mordor, songs of the defeat of the western world on their fell voices as they went.

He chose not to allow his company to wait any longer than was necessary, and they went in a silent raiment from Osgiliath that evening. Under the cover of darkness they marched until the dim orb of the moon was at her peak in the sky before stopping to rest. The morning brought silence and a biting wind from the north as they climbed northwards in secrecy. All the while Faramir's thoughts dwelt on darker things, but he cared little. Thoughts were silent things, and so long as his thoughts did not turn to misery or despair, there was no need for him to shy away from them like a coward. But when the moon rose again and their company bedded down under the threat of cloud from the east, he began to damn the silence of the night watches.

The morn following promised little better tidings for him, or so he thought before he was proven otherwise. The deep hills of the garden of Gondor were now all about them as they trekked through Ithilien's northern crowns. And so they came to where Loki's grave report had come from, though it was some ways ahead from where the Harad were at present. Faramir's scouts had not been idle, even in travel, and they had tracked the progress of the foreigners along the road as their own armed forces lurked towards the forest ahead.

Though his men were of talent and silent within the natural sounds of the forest, Faramir could still hear them about him as he walked. They walked in distanced pairs, so that aid was never far from hand if one was spotted. Also by such organization they decreased the likelihood of them being spotted for as large a number as they were. A lone ranger bent on his travel was not an easy thing to spot, though two walking together were more likely to be seen.

In disregard to that statement, however, when Faramir looked to his left to see if there was anything to be seen of his two closest adjutants, he was met with Loki, whose approach had gone entirely unheard by him. Dismounted, he walked even more silently than Faramir could, and let no curl of his cloak be licked by the wind or his long stride. The Captain had started greatly upon seeing him so close so unexpectedly at his side, but kept himself from diverting his course as they continued to walk on in silence. Faramir would have scolded him on possibly exposing them, but it seemed a lesson wasted considering the only reason he knew Loki was there was because he was looking directly at his face.

But he was caught often, as they walked together without word or laugh, by the look in Loki's eyes. It was one he had never seen in their short time together, and he was impressed upon mightily by it. For it was not one of pity or woe, but one of terrible understanding and sympathy. Faramir could only guess that Loki had heard the tidings of what had occurred at Osgiliath, and knowing Faramir's story also he by association knew the importance of the tale. But rather than be irked by Loki's silence like he had been so many others, he was comforted instead. Loki's silence, he knew, was not one given because the other had nothing to say on the matter, or didn't know the right words.

Loki knew everything there was to say on the matter; he knew every angle from which the story could be told, and knew intimately the pain that was involved with such a loss. They both had brothers, and Loki could imagine in great detail the pain of what it would be like to lose one whom you love in spite of their faults. So the Captain kept silent about the matter, absorbing and appreciating his company's presence with great relief in his heart. A relief he had not been looking for, nor had he felt in many days, but was thankful for nonetheless.

It was not until the end of the day drew near that they spoke to one another, though much that was silent thought had been said regardless of voices. When the men had broken off in pairs to camp down and take watches in the night, he and Loki responded in kind. No group of two or more would be more than four furlongs off, which was a short distance to be covered by tall men in a hurry all things considered, but remained a safe enough distance for separate fire-less camps.

When it came time for them to choose a location, for they struck out to the front of the group to set up their camp, they chose a small alcove of densely-bottomed yet high-reaching shrubs curled in close to a shelf of rock that made up the hillside over which they would scale in the morning in order to rally against their enemies. The Harad made noise even at great distance, and their strange bellowings could be heard over many hills between them. But for now nightly noises were all that reached them in their alcove, and Faramir would be relieved to sit for a moment.

He was about to open his mouth to speak of watches when Loki sprung up the rock like a goat. Light on his feet, with a whirl of his cloak he reached a stony ledge, no wider than the man's body was thick. But, unperturbed in his efforts, Loki sat upon it with his legs pressed up under his chin as he folded his sword over his lap and flung up his hood about his head. Faramir would have feared someone seeing him on his elevated outpost, but where he sat was just where the shrubs about them began to thin as they reached towards the sky. With his cloak about him and his posture still as stone, it would be almost impossible to descry him from afar.

"I hope you do not expect me to get up there," he said, putting a hand to his hip as he went and set himself in his own cloak below Loki's loft. "I fear that my watch must be taken at ground level, for I have no inkling to wander up there in the dark after you."

When he bent his head back and looked up, Loki's eyes and his smile were all that he could see in the descending darkness, for they glinted like winking stars. "Then take this as the end of an issue and of an argument, Captain," Loki said, a smile in his fey voice. "You will not take watch, tonight." Faramir stopped for a moment on the mouthful of dried meat and tack he had drawn from his supplies. "The Captain must have had rest enough to lead his men, especially tomorrow when they face their enemy. And, as I see it, you must take rest when you may get it, as in days coming there may be little to have considering the shroud that descends about us."

Chewing for a moment longer, Faramir considered his options. None of them were particularly promising in that moment, when Loki had said plenty enough to convince him of what he needed to do. Part of him, however, resisted the counsel. If only on principal that it seemed likely that Loki should have gone without rest all the while that he was out in the wild. Being several days of such wandering, him going without again seemed equally foolish. But if Faramir knew Loki as well as he hoped he did, which he hoped was at least some portion of as well as he knew himself, he understood that once Loki had made a decision, he was unlikely to rescind on it come whatever arguments may be brooked to him.

"At least eat then, Loki." He pondered whether or not he had enough to spare. He should have, if they managed to reach Henneth Annûn after the battle was over, or better yet, won. "Against my original intentions you whisked yourself off to the wild while I meant for you to remain around Osgiliath where there were supplies ready. You did not take enough with you for the journey you undertook."

He heard a snort come from his companion, but it was not spiteful, as much vehemence as it seemed to have. "Though I appreciate your concern, Faramir, it is unnecessary. I am as prepared as I need to be for whatever may come to us tomorrow or until we get to Osgiliath once more. I will not waste away as you seem to think I will." His voice was quiet, and held little accusation, but there was something uneasy about it that made the young Gondorian stop and think for a moment.

He tucked a chilled hand beneath the edge of his cloak and rested his head on the rock behind him. For a long while, neither of them spoke. It was not under the guise of the argument being over, even though it may as well have been. Rather, it was more a waiting game for both of them until the other said something, or came to understand something that had remained unsaid. Much in regards to Loki would forever remain unsaid, but always Faramir took comfort in what he could understand of Loki, rather than taking discomfort with what he did not have the capacity to understand.

"Do not let your thoughts dwell on evil possibilities, Loki." The other man made no sound above him, and even at that distance Faramir was well aware that Loki could have moved without his knowledge. "To my knowledge your brother yet lives. Do not grieve for losses that you have not suffered."

The glinting smile that was above him disappeared, and Loki's great flashing eyes narrowed as they gazed off into the distance as Faramir looked up at him. "I have suffered many things, Faramir, brother of the Late Boromir and son of Denethor. Greater things than you can imagine, for though a great man you would think and make of me, I am but a mongrel child, taken in by a noble house and made an example of so that my name can forever remain the bane of the wicked stories mothers tell their children in the wan hours of the night." The sound he made then was almost a snarl, guttural and cruel. "All love and feeling for my kin may as well leave them dead to me now, for all the scantly faith they had in me proved spoilt in the end. For I am a lesser son of bastard sires, and that forever shall I remain."

A hissing wind came laughing out of the mountains in the east, and in spite of his cloak and garments, Faramir felt the chill of it deep in his bones. "What they call you and what you are remain different things, Loki. Fatherless you say you are, and the blood of your kindred not your own. But blood does not beget fatherhood, or prevent kinship. My father, my blood bourne of, would rather call the lowest swaths of the souls buried in the Dead Marshes his sons than admit any value of any but his first child, who now lies dead at the bottom of the Anduin. And my kinsmen, no closer to my blood than they are to an Elf Princeling of the north, are more my brothers than any son my father could muster in these failing days." He looked up, but the lamp-like eyes of his companion were hidden from him: either shut or hidden in the shadows beyond his vision.

"That said," he continued, though he did not know if his audience was still even listening, "please, Loki, I beg of you: do not allow others to name your fate for you. You will only be the lowest scourge of bastard-sires if you let them make you one. If you defy them, then your fate and your name is your own to do with what you will."

The wind quieted.

He rested his head on his knees, keeping his sword close to his hands as he prepared to take Loki's counsel and get what little rest he could while it was available. Though he doubted what good rest his roiling and often nebulous dreams would bring him that evening, he was willing to give it an honest attempt. "What would you have them call you, Loki?" he mumbled to the dark, and was nearly asleep when the reply came. He was only cognizant enough to hear it before all faces of Middle Earth were lost to his sleep completely.

"Equal."

Ѻ I amar prestar aen. Han mathon ne nen. Han mathon ne chae. A han noston ne 'wilith. Ѻ

When Faramir awoke the next morning, it was with an apple on his head and dew on his cloak. The dew itself was easy enough to explain, but regardless he was thankful that it had not had the chance to sink through his cloak and thoroughly wet his shoulders. The chill could have done him great ill. But the apple, as he discovered it by accident as he looked up from where his nose was buried against his arm in an attempt to keep warm, was a bit more difficult to explain. It was a crisp one, firm and brightly skinned as it thumped down to the ground to rest by his boot when he shifted his head. He picked it up, stretching the stiffness out of his limbs as he examined it.

Then he wondered, quite astutely, who had come by such a thing and how, considering it was not of a fruit native to Gondor, nor was it the season for such things when the biting frosts were so recently left behind. Its golden skin shone in the dim morning light about him, and he felt unease at it being left on his head by an unknown benefactor.

He glanced up to the shelf where Loki had sat the previous night. Without him in it, it looked even narrower in the daylight. He marveled at how the man had even sat there, when likely it was only just wide enough for a single foot to get purchase on. He glanced back down at his apple, and then looked around. His watchman, it seemed, had disappeared.

"Why do you look at that poor apple as if it is going to bite you?"

Faramir whirled, looking back just in time to find Loki sitting exactly where the Captain could have sworn he was not but a moment ago. Loki was not crouched on his perch as he was the night before, but rather sitting on it languidly as one would a comfortable chair. How Loki found it comfortable was beyond him, so he decided not to mentally pursue the subject any further. Loki had proven himself many times to be simply queer, with no offered explanation, and no given one even if asked.

"It is not often that I wake up with fruit on my head," he answered, tossing the fruit in his hand. It was heavy with moisture, as the weight of it was more than he expected when he had first picked it up. "Nor is it exactly comforting when my supposed watch is missing in a land where even the smallest shadow is questionable in intents."

Loki's laugh was light, but his eyes showed no attachment to it. "Be assured then, Captain, that your Watchman was never out of range to come to your aid. In fact he was never out of seeing range of you, if that is any more of a comfort."

"It isn't, in fact," Faramir replied, brushing the dew off of his shoulders. "For though I trust your sight and aim as an archer, I doubt your claims at range. But whatever distance you were at, something seems to have intrigued you." Loki's grin was a bit more earnest, as the interest glimmered low in his eyes as one of his dark eyebrows winged up onto his brow. "There is no dew on your cloak, and one shoulder has been cast aside. The side you carry your knife on, actually. Though you bear no blood on you, and I do not yet hear the rumbling chaos of the Harad in the distance." He eyed Loki warily. "So something else silent and lurking has caught your attention. What be it?"

With a whirl of his cloak Loki was at the top of the sheer hill they'd camped at the bottom of, by grace and speed beyond Faramir's matching. His hood drawn up, he was barely to be seen. "Eat your apple and rouse your men, Captain," he said. "There are rabbits about this morning, and good water in pools up the hill." He was gone a moment later, his footsteps naught more than the breath of a mouse in the grass. Huffing and biting the apple to free up his hands, Faramir re-settled his gear about him and made to leave their little alcove. It would be a day of doom indeed when he ever managed to make sense of Loki's musings.

The crisp taste on his tongue was not a familiar one to him, but put a spring in his stride and awakened whatever sleep-darkened corners of his mind were left. Post-bite he whistled a chirping call, and not a moment later Damrod and Mablung came quietly out of the bush to his side. They looked rested, but uneasy. With good reason, of course. It was not every day, though nor was it an unlikely occurrence, that the men who forayed into the wilds should confront enemies. This time, however was with great and terrible purpose. A machinated attack, against heavily armed and prepared enemies, justifiably demanded severity from its participants.

This time Faramir allowed his men to stay close to him as they scaled closer to where the Harad would be coming to the road. For a league or so they walked in silence, and for as hard as he looked, he could find no sign of Loki. Or, now that he thought about it, Loki's thundering steed, which had borne him out so far away from Osgiliath. He wondered if Loki had gone to find the beast so that he could ride into battle with some of their other company, but was unsure of whether or not he was the type to risk such a thing. He seemed perfectly comfortable with more silent approaches, and on that thought Faramir wagered that the man was probably out scouting for a high viewpoint to shoot from so that he wouldn't have to get his hands dirty.

It seemed like something he would do, so he thought no more of it.

Until, of course, Loki went and did things beyond his reckoning, like appear walking behind he and his men as they neared the vantage point that they had plotted on their maps as soon as the detailed reports had come in. He didn't announce his presence, nor did any of them notice him until he spoke over Mablung's shoulder and pointed to something on the small map that the Captain had brought with him. All three of the men that had been around the map at that time had nearly jumped out of their skins, and succeeded in completely missing whatever it was that Loki had to say about whatever it was he had discovered and was trying to express.

When they all looked to him as if he'd grown a second head, he seemed disappointed, if only in the wryness that glimmered lowly in his eyes. "Come now, gentlemen. We really must focus just now. We're in a hurry this morning if I am not mistaken, and I have just come upon something of importance. Which, if you had been listening to me at all, you would likely have heard."

Faramir was thankful that Damrod actually chuckled. It was a sign that Loki's stigma of strangeness was slowly fading as he began to prove his worth amongst the men. They may not trust him inherently, which was wisdom rather than folly, but they were beginning to at least be settled with his character. "You may have caught our ears if you had not startled us quite so severely," he defended, looking both confused and intrigued. Faramir often kept both Damrod and Mablung with him due to their aptitude, so he could understand where the man's confusion came from. He was no fool, and yet Loki had just made him one against his will. "Now what is it that you've stumbled upon, Longshanks?"

"Precisely what you men would have undoubtedly picked up on in but a few moments." Instead of pointing to the map as he had done before, he pointed to the low dim sky slung above the hills. Surely enough, there was a low-curling spiral of smoke twining up from the hillside at which he was now pointing. "It's only just a few moments ago burned long enough to become visible, but I suspected something like it was due to turn up this morning."

The Captain looked to Loki for a moment, grave but curious. It was not the best of tidings to have someone camping in the wilds of Ithilien with the Harad so close. But his trepidation was yet allayed, for Loki seemed to have no fear of what it implied. "What have you seen?" he asked, knowing that Loki was not one to tell all that he had encountered at the first mentioning. But if asked, he was one to elaborate what was necessary for proper understanding of the situation as he took to understand it. To Loki's compliment, Faramir trusted his understanding of situations more than most in his company.

Loki's smile was thin. "Many things in the dark watches of the night. Many of which I am unsure how to explain to you. But lurking 'round here last night was some odd gangle creature. Hunch-backed and wan, it looked like some kind of ill-begotten child. But it had a foul look about it, and it snuffled about muttering to itself and hissing. Though it made little discernible noise to an inattentive ear, it grumbled something horrid about 'Hobbits' if that means anything to you. I could not get a hand on it last night, for I fear it felt me drawing near and grew panicked and slunk away." He shook his head, looking back to the map and pointing at it once more. "I saw it again this morning, as it carried off two rabbits that it seemed to have found, back towards this area here. I can only imagine that its "Hobbits" are there, and that its fondness of them is neither great nor terrible."

The three men around him looked skeptical at best, and though Faramir was most inclined to believe him he knew little of what he was actually to do about it. The Harad were coming around the corner, and his men needed to be ready to plight the intentions of the convoy. But Loki did not pay attention to things which he deemed unimportant, as made obvious by many of the facts Faramir had observed in his choices. So whatever creature he had seen crawling about and heard snuffling, it was of some importance at least. That, and the word Hobbit rang deep somewhere, and he wondered over his vision. The one that had sent Boromir toiling through the wilds to Imladris... never to return as a living man.

He kept that thought to himself, and looked to his company. "We shall go and investigate." He looked to Loki, who seemed pleased with the decision for what little he was actually paying attention. His eyes, and the majority of his focus, kept flickering between the map and areas far beyond the Gondorians' line of sight.

Handing the map back to Mablung, who would be in need of it if he and Damrod were to help him rally his forces, he turned and rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. "If nothing proves worthy of inspection, you know where we are to be when the Harad approach. Hasten, and waste no steps. You will need what energy you have, for these men of the South do not come unarmed into our gardens." The two rangers nodded before disappearing up the hill ahead of them, and he and Loki split off to keep separate.

"I assume from all your nervous glancing that you intend to make for higher ground as soon as we have investigated," Faramir said as they walked, for though his silence of voice was proper it was no longer necessary. The sheer noise of the approaching company would easily deafen most to even an uproarious amount of noise. "You will run out of arrows before you run out of men to shoot them at, my friend. That much I may assure you."

His companion's laugh was light, but not belittling. "Nay, Captain, I do not make for higher ground," he claimed, though his eyes remained fixed on the hills about them. Somewhere close he could hear the faint song of water running. "Or, rather, not as high of ground as you think me to. I need but a small hill, or even a tree for the vantage point that I desire. I have need to aim high today, and though I do not doubt my own aim, power is what will hasten my success. If I can be closer at all to my target, I will be more likely to succeed wholly than to half-succeed. And though such a difference may be slight enough to bring about the same outcome, it is but a little... unrefined for my tastes."

What sense he was supposed to make of such talk was beyond him, but he was willing to ask where others would not risk their pride in having to do so. "You sound as if you have one singular target in mind. You may have to broaden your horizons, Loki, for we have not room for anyone to be so selective."

Loki's smile was feral. "My selectivity is utilitarian, I assure. And as such it will dissipate when my goal is reached. So fear not, I will not pass by one foe to get to another, though I think you may find my endeavor more useful than you are currently giving it credit for." There was a dark gleam in Loki's green eyes, and a flashing gleeful malice that made Faramir thankful that Loki's whims were devoted to their cause, rather than pitted against it. He knew then better than anyone else that, even if they hadn’t Sauron’s dark forces hounding their footsteps and thinning their resources, they could never have beaten him.

They grew silent as they approached the point on the hill which Loki had pointed out to them, and listened as the sound of small voices greeted them. Loki slunk behind him as they came into view of the source, even as Damrod and Mablung began to speak to one another and give away their approach. He glanced back to Loki, who was smirking with a shrug. Apparently his men would need some schooling on proper stealth, but that would be dealt with later. Much later, if these Hobbits or the Harad had anything to say about it to Captain Faramir.

Ѻ I amar prestar aen. Han mathon ne nen. Han mathon ne chae. A han noston ne 'wilith. Ѻ

He dropped to a more stealthy stance as they approached the road. The noise of the approaching company was drawing close, and all around he could see where his troop lay hidden. Ithilien was kind to its men, especially when their fortune was tied to the doom of its enemies. "I suppose, now that all sorts of proof has been given, that I shall have to trust you then," he said, looking over his shoulder to find his side abandoned. At least this time he had been expecting that Loki would disappear. He was getting more and more used to the man coming and going, though he doubted that his men would ever quite have the good graces to do the same.

In better times they may well have, but these were not those times. And even if Loki earned their trust, he was too strange to them to earn their companionship. Faramir was thankful that was not his case, because more than anything he was thankful that Loki had come into his life, at a time above all others when he needed a friend who knew his plight and was of similar strength as to overcome it anyway. Perhaps after the Harad were disbanded and their mysterious Hobbits dealt with, they could discuss things in private. At Henneth Annûn perhaps, where the clean water could drown out unwanted listeners and wash away a few sorrows.

And, after all, they had discussed Loki’s need to search for higher ground before their run-ins with the Halflings. And, though that was an interesting and grave meeting indeed, it was not Faramir’s focus at the moment. His enemies, for now, were not two small Hobbits lost out in the wild, if that was what they actually were. He would leave them with his men until he had time to assess whether or not that was wholly accurate. As it seemed to him in those days, dangers came in many forms, but some came sooner and swifter than others, just such as ones that came more slowly and quietly.

When a wavering horn call split the air, Faramir knew it was time to focus. He drew his bow first, knocking the arrow against the string and keeping his gaze carefully honed towards the approaching company. The foot soldiers came first; and those they would leave for now. They would be the easiest to eliminate with handed combat, as they were likely the least trained of them all. The heavier hitting company would be towards the middle, protected so that they could come out in force when the time was right.

A glimmering rapier caught Faramir’s eye amidst the middle of the oncoming company, and he drew slowly. Blessed was the sight he had inherited from his father, but with every arrow fired he prayed a new blessing in hopes that it would not fail him just yet. So far, his blessings had not been in vain.

The arrow whistled as he loosed it, and as quick as a blinking of the eye he had another arrow drawn. A rain of darting black shafts darkened the air with concussive whistling. The shouts of their enemies alerted them that the alarm had been raised, and that an attack had been detected. If, by then, the sight of at least two dozen dead bodies was not a clear enough indicator that they were unwelcome still in the northern reaches of Gondor. But rather than fall back and flee, like some very small part of him always wanted them to do, they armed up and went scattering into the sages to try to find their assailants as their own archers sought in vain to find the men of the west that lay hidden with Ithilien’s graces.

Faramir emptied his quiver long before the battle reached even the foremost lines of his men. He slung his bow over his shoulder, drawing sword and dagger as he descended noiselessly to join the fray. His cloak drawn up, he wouldn’t be seen by anything less than the Eye of the enemy himself, or one of his fell black riders. But with the lack of foul terror in the air, he knew that the winged hellions were elsewhere that day. Perhaps not far off, but not concerned yet by the destruction of but one of their Master’s numerous hoards. It disconcerted him often in the dark watches of the night, to think of how unimportant his own forces were to the Enemy.

He had wondered sometimes if humanity or goodness existed within the history of their Enemy, but he had never found out. His father scoffed often when he read too much and did not spend enough time handling his blade such as Boromir.

His face was grim when he came upon his first enemy. Perhaps his father’s malcontent was misdirected after all; for now where did Boromir lie but at the bottom of the Anduin, slain from battle and none the wiser for his lack of studies in the lore of their forefathers. But nor yet was he himself saved by that lore so for a time he would have to reserve judgment.

Steeling himself, he let his sword sing and silence his enemies as they came upon him. There were not many in the company of the Harad from what their scouts had seen, and soon enough the forces began to thin and scatter. Faramir knew he would not die that day, though thoughts of death were indeed weighing heavily on his mind. But with incredible control of his own emotions, he did not allow it to hinder him as he led his men to a silent, and undoubtedly unrewarded victory as the Harad fled.

Victory for a fleeting moment, however, seemed to disappear when the Captain felt the ground shake beneath his feet. He was confused for a moment, and only narrowly missed the scimitar whisking towards his head. He smote his enemy quickly, the sound of clashing weapons completely drowned by the raucous cry of an animal massive beyond all accounts. He swore to himself, darting away from his remaining enemies in an attempt to make for higher ground. The mumakil could trample a whole score of men without looking, and felling one was nearly impossible, especially if a war tower was perched on its back.

He re-mounted the hill just in time to see the great gray beast come looming out of the hills to the south. He wondered how on earth any of his scouts had managed to miss the great beast, and swore again. If he were not out of arrows then he would have attempted to land some to the beast’s great head, but even with arrows it would have been far too long of a shot for any bow of Gondorian making.

A thought struck him after a moment, and he turned and looked about the bush, counting the heads of his men as the enemies at last began to flee back down the road on which they had come, back behind the pulverizing force of their beast. His men were predominantly accounted for, but one of note in particular was still missing.

Loki, as of that time, had yet to descend into the battle with the rest of their group. And try as he might, Faramir could not spot him near or far. He looked back to the charging beast, cursing as it began to founder into the bush in pursuit of his men. The war tower on top of its great back was filled to the brim with archers, and their dark arrows rained down over their heads, shrieking wildly as they went. One landed just to the left of his foot, and he knew that it was time to move away. If he had been spotted, he needed to disappear to keep from losing his head.

He scurried into the bush just as the mumakil gave a howling bellow. The sound rocked the ground beneath his boots, and he looked back to see the great beast shaking its head wildly. Its great ears were flung wide in anger, and even from a distance Faramir could tell that its handler, a great driver perched on its head, was struggling to control it. He wondered for a moment what could have made the beast so nervous, before he saw the long dark arrow protruding from the beast’s eye.

The next arrow appeared in the neck of the driver, and he went toppling off of the beast to the grave that would undoubtedly lay underfoot. Without handler the great beast trumpeted, standing on its long hind legs for a moment in a picture of almost impossible enormity. But in that moment the war tower was unsettled from its back, and went crashing down to ruin on the ground below. The wooden structure fractured and shattered, surely crushing most who had been in it in a swift blow that dealt doom and inevitable failure to their enemies far more effectively than any other way they may have attempted.

But the great beast still lived, and Faramir had to break into a run to make sure that he avoided its deadly path. It scaled the hill some distance away from him, and turned down it to go plundering off into the wild. And though it went down into the valley where their Halflings from the north waited, he knew that it was unlikely to change course and go tramping over them; not when they were armed and more than ready to take out its other eye. It would make for lower ground and soothe its wounds as soon as possible, if death did not greet it more swiftly. They had no hope of catching the thing in whatever case, so there was little point in chasing it.

The remaining Harad scattered after that, their clinking armor doing them no good as they scurried towards Mordor’s gate with little more left of their company than what could be considered the barest dregs. And they would be lucky if when they got there their master and his minions didn’t skin them alive for being late and defeated no less.

When he turned, many of his men were in view, silently cheering as they smiled grim smiles at a silent and considerably smooth victory. Faramir joined them and smiled himself, but knew that he had to attend to his Hobbit business before they could set out to anywhere and make camp. He crested the hill and beyond it in long strides, and just behind a tree, the tallest and probably the only one to be found of that stature in the area, Loki stood with his long fingers on his bow and a smile on his face. His quiver was just freshly emptied, though it seemed that he had recovered a singular arrow of his from a bloodied enemy, for he was twirling it in his fingers idly.

“I presume,” Faramir said to him as they fell into stride together, “that the blinding shot belonged to you.”

Loki gripped the arrow and stilled it for a moment just as the head came before his face. The red blood on the tip was beginning to blacken and dry. “I did mention what it would take for me to succeed in my goal. Unfortunately for me the goal was only half achieved.” The irk on his face made him wrinkle his nose in distaste, and it seemed an almost childish look on him considering what they had just accomplished. “The damn thing got away from me before I could recover even a single arrow.”

At that Faramir laughed, and they continued down into the valley below in search of Damrod and Mablung, who were hopefully still keeping watchful eye over the Hobbits, perhaps even a silent watch if they had learned their lesson at all. The bodies of the dead were being taken care of as they went, and normally Faramir would have assisted in the cleaning. But today he had a great many things on his mind, the least of which certainly was not a pair of Hobbit travelers that had come mysteriously and unannounced into the realm of Gondor.

He paused for a moment, with Loki stopping at his side. The other man didn’t look at him for a moment, instead looking owlishly around as if in search of anything of interest to him. It seemed with the great beast gone and the Hobbits attended, or to be tended, to, he needed something new to appeal to him.

“Loki,” he said, finally drawing the man’s attention, “what do you think of these Hobbit folk?” He himself was suspicious, but also unsettled. He knew better than most to not doubt the validity of his dreams. They had more than once spelled doom before any other had seen or heard of it, and ignoring them did not make the premonition not come to fruition.

In spite of his seriousness, Loki was smiling. Not in a terribly broad or obvious way, but rather in a smaller, subtler way that just barely creased the corners of his mouth and shone only in the barest twinkling in his eyes. Any less observant man would have missed it completely. “I think,” he said, keeping his gaze on Faramir, “that in the coming years there is something that is going to happen that has never before occurred. And though it may not be widespread, history will one day call up on this age to remember the dominion of the small in great deeds.”

Shaking his head, Faramir sighed. But he was smiling in spite of himself, and knew that he couldn’t hold too much of a grudge. Loki was, after all, more than a bit cryptic at his most transparent. So for him to be even more so was not a terribly great leap of reasoning to make. He merely looked over at the other man, raising a brow to show his mild dissatisfaction with the statement.

Loki was smiling a bit more broadly, but said no more as they passed down the hill and unto the dell where the Hobbit-folk waited. Faramir had to sober himself to restore his seriousness on that matter, and he found the task both simplified and made a thousand times more difficult with a friend by his side who would both laugh with him in his plights and stay silently by him in his woes.

And, for a time, he prayed that whatever had brought Loki to Middle Earth would never be enough to take him from it, or that even Loki’s own mercurial graces would be better suited to Gondor’s lands for a time. Because if Loki had proven anything, he had proven to Faramir at least that whatever fate sent him across the stars, it was a blessed one, so as to have given him so lively and intricate a companion.

Ѻ I amar prestar aen. Han mathon ne nen. Han mathon ne chae. A han noston ne 'wilith. Ѻ

Henneth Annûn's sunset was long passed, their guests long interviewed and entreated kindly, and the terrible business of the gangle creature explained by the time he got time to himself to grieve. He had been internally and mentally fraught with misery all the while that they had been abroad, but he had had responsibilities to attend to then. His men needed him to lead, not to weep over a loss like some maid in a shadowy room. But that meant by no means that he did not feel entitled to his own feelings, and as darkness fell into deeper slumbers around their outpost, he began to realize his need for time. Any time at all, however slight, to assess his own grief, and above all the future of his country if his father ever allowed him to the seat of the Steward.

He was making to wander the paths up to the crown of the waterfall when he caught sight of Loki weaving amongst his men. He had remained silent for almost all of the affairs with the Hobbits, save for some sparing words on their blindfolded journey to Henneth Annûn. And those words, much like and unlike him, had been short and relatively clear. Faramir doubted that he had interpreted them correctly, but had left them as they were in favor of more immediate tasks. Loki's silence had deepened as the night wore on, until Faramir began to realize that the man was dangerously deep in thought, sunk down to crevices that mortal men could undoubtedly never crawl out of.

But now he had his own time to go deep into thought. He was _taking_ time, and as much as he wanted it to be quiet, he did not want it to be lonely. He had spent enough lonely days reading tomes from grizzled scholars and waiting on the return of unpredictable wizards. Isolation was the last thing he wanted or needed, and it was the last thing he was going to force himself into if he had any ability to prevent it at all. And as an adult, he found that he had far more power to affect his own fate than he'd had as a child. So even as Loki made to round one of the tunnels and undoubtedly head towards some further duty, which he seemed to be seeking out regardless of how other men would have undoubtedly sought rest after so much hard work, Faramir caught him by his elbow and distracted him from his intended path.

"Ah, Captain." Loki's voice showed no displeasure at the sight of him, though the glimmer in his eyes seemed distant and faint, like a star just beginning to wink out of the sky forever. "What can I do for you?"

He paused for a moment, considering that perhaps it really was asking too much of the man. It may not be something he wanted or felt the need to do, helping a lowly Captain with his own personal trials. But Faramir was not one to make the mistake of assuming he knew everything about someone, especially their thoughts. He was not an unintelligent man, but he was no Valar, blessed with omniscient Guardianship. "I was hoping," he said slowly, observing Loki's expression as he spoke. The other man actually looked as if he were concerned, if what he thought concern would look like on Loki's face was actually the expression the other man was giving him at that moment. "I was hoping that you might accompany me for a moment or two. I had hopes of clearing my mind up where the air is a bit clearer, and didn't want to be alone just yet. That is, of course, if you are not preoccupied and do not mind too terribly much."

Loki was thin lipped, and he nodded solemnly and followed after him with an inaudible turn of his cloak. They scaled together, scores of stairs and winding corridors as the surface drew nearer. When they emerged, Faramir would have thought that the moon would be bright overhead, bathing the escarpment with a bone-white glow. But even in the night, the shadow from the East stretched and filled in the holes in the inky sky with deeper shade. But far off over the hills, away in the distance many leagues away from them all, starlight shone gray and ashen on the plains.

Pacing was the only thing that appeased him for a time, while Loki remained silent and still as the Kings' Tombs just at the brink of the waterfall, where the great cascade went over in a dying roar. As his feet worked words and images and tales and lifetimes swirled in his head, a million instants condensed into midnight minutes atop a great fall. When Faramir had collected what he believed to be enough of a thought to voice, he stopped in his pacing. The stillness settled, but he did not turn to face his companion. Rather, he stood at the opposite side of the lofty head of the falls, their backs left facing as they looked to different parts of the far off horizon.

"Our worlds are not the same, Captain Faramir."

Faramir had actually hoped to speak first, but he found that as much as he had been trying to think of something to say, in comparison, he had truly not succeeded at all.

"Our fathers and brothers are not the same, though they do have similarities." He would have expected some empty laughter from Loki, but it never came. The seriousness in his tone was almost deadly, like the tolling of a funeral bell over a deep. "All that is the same between us, truly, is our pain. It is a universal line that connects all living, thinking creatures to each other. We all feel pain, and as cold and calloused and calculating as we become, we can all to some extent fathom the pain in others by comparing it to pain within ourselves." There was biting sharpness in his intonation, but not in his words. "There is never an escape from it, Faramir."

In the silence he thought until he believed to have understood the other man's words, and so they remained standing, back to back at a great distance until morning came in pale shades of red on the horizon. Only then did Faramir truly have something to say, but he waited until they were facing again as the call to armaments came up the open stair. Loki's green eyes were ancient and restless as they looked to him for something he was unsure he could provide. But for the sake of himself, and for an understanding beyond what Middle Earth could ever offer him, he was willing to make an honest and genuine attempt.

"If anything, it will never be healed if you try to escape from it. If you turn away and run from it, rather than face it and embrace it, it will do nothing but tear at your heart." He looked to his companion, whose down-turned expression he could not read.

Loki walked away from him without another word, his footsteps silent and his presence barely present enough to constitute him existing. He wondered over how many others had made the mistake of thinking that Loki really wasn't there, when all he ever seemed to be was around to observe and contemplate.

Then, he changed his prayers for Loki. Because there was nothing but Loki's own hand in what had brought him to Middle Earth, or rather: away from home. Middle Earth had been a chance; one of a million. But the fall was not unplanned, and so instead Faramir prayed that whatever Loki had done to bring him there would never be enough to take him from himself. For he got the dark feeling that if Loki could remove the pain from himself in whatever brutal way he could learn, he would take the opportunity to do so regardless of whatever severe consequences lay ahead.

Perhaps he was not asking so much of Loki for his own selfish purposes, as he was asking too much of Loki for Loki's own well-being.


	5. Part IV

For Loki it was a bittersweet thing to look upon the river at Osgiliath once more. He had seen it only fleetingly before he’d taken to his tasks out in the wilds, and had made a point of avoiding the river at that time as best he could. He usually was not one that shied away from premonition, but in this instance he was more than happy to turn his back and look away from the city's haunting former glory. 

Faramir, in many ways beyond count, was very much like himself. He was also, in the ways that sometimes were the only ones that did count, nothing like him. That did not change, however, that the thought of being present for the breaking of the news to Faramir that his brother was dead tied Loki’s stomach in knots.

He did not like that feeling. Loki was killer of men; he had been known to gut people for giving him ill-favored looks. He had fathered as well as mothered hideous beasts. If one were to be honest he was from an entire race of ghastly creatures with a very gruesome set of cultural tendencies. _Nothing_ made him squirm; not Odin, not Thor, not even the threat of Ragnarök could force him into feeling anything for anyone if he did not wish to.

Which could only mean, thusly deduced, that some little part of him that he had yet to dig up and cauterize wanted to feel pity and camaraderie for Faramir. He _wanted_ to not have to watch the unveiling of the cruel fate of the man’s brother, because he could not imagine having someone watch him lose his own brother. He could not imagine that empathy. He would no doubt respond far less… moderately than Faramir had. Then again, in certain senses, he was in general a far less moderate person than the Captain. The Captain, for one, did indeed love his brother in the best way that he knew. Loki’s feelings were less definable. 

The opposite of love, after all, was not hate. The opposite of love was nihilism, and it could be said of Loki, if anything at all, that he _hated_ Thor.

At least now when he looked upon the dimly glittering waters of the Anduin, he knew that he had managed to evade that bothersome scene, and that the haunted remains of the battle-worn eldest son of Denethor were now washed away. It still haunted Faramir, but the man had a surprising amount of resilience to show for it. Probably quite a bit more than Loki would have, as he was unsure whether or not he could have emotionally recovered so quickly from such a blow.

That, however, was another area in which he and Faramir differed. Even though their lifespans were massively different, the proportion of their lives spent absorbing and thinking, though similar in structure, was very different. Faramir was a man to think about things quietly, and for a time only so long as he needed to come to some manner of peace about whatever it was he considered. Loki was not so simple, though he did admit that sometimes he wished that he was. He was a man who dwelt on things, turning them over a thousand ways and picking them apart until they were star-ash, and then reassembled everything in an attempt to make a complete picture of all the things that he had observed.

The finished, re-assembled product rarely ever resembled the one that Loki had to start with, but that was another feature that was a trait of his own. He twisted things, for good or bad, and changed their shape to suit him and his nature.

Svaðilfari kicked his head back, his dark mane rustling as it brushed against Loki’s arms. He patted the great horse’s neck and scrubbed his long fingers over his mount’s fine coat, sighing as he stared down at the city from the foothills. He’d taken the night watch, again, if only to avoid saying more foolishly heartfelt things to the Gondorian Captain. He had made the mistake at the outpost behind the falls, and though he did not necessarily regret his words, he knew that he would need to be more careful with them in the future. 

Carelessness mixed with open emotion rarely ever made a concoction fit to the amount of success that he always internally demanded of himself. And, though Faramir seemed not to have minded in the least, that did not mean that Loki was absolved from the obligation to mind a great deal. The mortal had yet to take on that much power in his thoughts.

Jerking his heels together in a quick kick, he urged Svaðilfari on to a light trot. He had been strictly ordered by Faramir to be back at dawn; and not because the other man would just be missing him. He had spoken with a grave look on his face, and that, though not singularly, was enough reason for why Loki was returning as instructed. Something dark was also in his thoughts; like the gathering of a great clouded doom that crawled under doors at night to snatch the dreams of the sleeping.

He had felt the same thing that night at the mist-enshrouded outpost, when the small matter of several Hobbits had still been most prevalent in their minds. At first it had been a lingering feeling; a slow pull that he had felt out in the wilds that had drawn him to look for the Hobbits in the first place. It had grown stronger as their company had traveled, until it agitated him enough for him to get snappish and emotional around an audience he shouldn’t have.

It wasn’t until they had re-adjourned with the Hobbit company in the morning that Loki became aware of why he was so bothered. He’d stood next to Faramir, facing their diminutive guests when he had managed to catch the eye of the less portly of the two. He was elfin in a way, aging around the eyes in a way that made Loki really feel him. He had a very defining presence.

The presence of the magic ring hanging around his neck, even as it was hidden under his clothing, had all but punched Loki square in the jaw in that moment when he'd looked upon that young Hobbit. It was a heavy hit indeed, and it seemed that the little Hobbit had felt it too, as panic flitted through his eyes as they stared at one another openly. Loki knew his fear; the fear of being stolen from. But he could trace the thought, and could feel that it did not have genesis in the Hobbit’s own true thoughts.

Rather, it was a malevolent little whisper, emanating from the little golden trinket bearing down on his throat. Loki was not one to be swayed by such magic as the Ring possessed, but the affect it had on him even in its minute ways was disturbing.

He pitied the Hobbit, but did not doubt in the caliber of his muster. From the maps he had poured over in Henneth Annun, he knew that the lad had already come a long way from the Shire where he belonged. And if he had made it so far with good graces and fire still in his eyes, it was likely that he would make it a great deal further.

The young lad, whose name was Frodo as his gardener had been oh so kind to remind them all, walked next to him as they left the Rangers’ camp. Perhaps because he felt safer by Loki’s side than by the other more susceptible men, or perhaps just because it was one simple choice he could actually make in a world full of choices being made for him.

The gardener had been immensely impressed when Loki had summoned Svaðilfari from the brush, and he’d taken the decency to smile in spite of the gruelingly spiteful look the gangle creature had given him. Loki had smiled at him too, though far less warmly. He understood without needing to inquire that the little golem like creature knew that it was him who had chased him in the wilds before the morning of the Harad ambush. He also understood without needing to confirm that he was worthy of whatever scorn Loki chose to give him.

Their company had parted ways shortly after that, and Faramir, on his own mount now, had ridden with him back towards Osgiliath with the greatest of haste. There was need of them there, much like as soon as they had arrived there would be great need of them elsewhere.

Such as, Loki felt, there was a great need for him back at Osgiliath right now. He was returning early, though dawn was not far off in the wings. He could feel it coming, though rarely these days could he see it until much later in the morning. The great black cloak in the east was slowly being cast further and further west, and with each passing day it stole more and more light from their lives.

Loki knew danger when he felt it, and though he could hear no disturbance in the city, he knew that it waited lurking in the shadows. There was no light on the far shore of the city, but he trusted darkness less than most because usually he was the one who put the lurking things in it.

He was always rather thankful that in spite of being such an impressing beast, Svaðilfari always had the good sense to have a quiet step. There were reasons why Loki and he got along besides the obvious natural chemistry draws of their first meeting. There was a deep natural part of anyone’s personality that accepted intelligence akin to itself. Though it had not been obvious after the initial chase, Loki had realized that, for a stallion of unknown but undoubtedly semi-mythic origin, Svaðilfari was inarguably smart. And Loki, already having a particularly soft spot for people that proved themselves competent and smart, had been charmed in a mare-ish way that had made their first encounter so… interesting.

Fortuitous was another word he personally liked to use to describe the occurrence, but few others agreed with the positive connotations of that particular word. But Loki wouldn’t dare to call it anything else, not when he’d been gifted with a beautiful son and now one of the most trustworthy mounts he could have ever imagined in such a dire situation as this. Anything less would be a disservice to one of his partners, and though he was often an honor-less man he would not personally allow himself to go without some modicum of respectability in this instance.

To be fair, he did not truly doubt the strength and capability of the horses of Middle Earth, but there were certain creature comforts that he was willing to take thanks in when things like imminent violent battle were involved.

A great thundering of fell cries rose up from Osgiliath, and Loki straightened from where he had been curled closer to Svaðilfari’s great neck. With another kick of his heels he spurred them on, as fast as the steed’s rolling gait would take them. Light from flames sprung up on both sides of the river-sided city, on the far where there had once been darkness and on the near as the great clamor of battle broke out. He kept one hand’s worth of fingers knotted in Svaðilfari’s dark mane to keep himself from falling, without saddle as he was, using the other to draw the sword he had yet to use in battle against these gremlins of Mordor’s misdeeds.

As much as he usually liked to keep himself distanced and above the gruesome fray of the battle, in this instance he felt that there was no option to turn to. Going into a city, however ruined in the grips of war, and hoping to keep a lofted perch away from an onslaught of enemies was folly. And if there was one thing that Loki was less fond of than getting his hands dirty, it was being guilty of unmitigated stupidity. This night he would forsake one dislike in order to avoid the other and more serious grievance, and if it was so simply done as to simply draw a sword instead of a bow, he would be happy to oblige.

Regardless of case, it was not as if he could deny the anticipation, however quiet, that he had been feeling at the idea of being able to utilize his weapon. Ever since their company had left Amon Din, and the smithy therein, the blade had been resting silent at his hip, cloaked in its sheath and satisfied in its early waking to wait for the right time to be drawn. Now Loki could feel that it grew impatient at the promise of bloodshed, as he had made it to feel such.

The long silver blade glowed like a fang in the moonlight, brightened by his magics to will it to give off a faint green glow. In his time listening to the other soldiers, he had heard many tales about how the swords of great Kings and Stewards shone like great flames when the dark and the need entrenched them. Loki had liked that idea, and had rooted it heavily when he had taken to smith and made his own. His outfitter had been impressed at the time with his skill, and he wondered idly now how the old man would have felt watching him plunging into battle, the shining sword glowing green in the dark.

He knew that his first enemy felt fear, immense and inundating as the long blade slew him down. The orcs around him, hideous and mangled just as their comrade had been, scattered as he plunged into the city from the riverside that was not overtaken. As it were he was pushing through from behind, clearing a path to his generally associated comrades and doing the convenient deed of slaying as many enemies as possible along the way.

The further he went in the city, however, the more difficult it became to slay his enemies at will. There were clots of bodies blocking many paths, and the stonework of the city was crumbling around him as catapults hurled remains of the half of the city already broken and razed. At first he felt guilt at having to jump and ride over the dead fellows of his own side, but he soon realized that it mattered little; there were none among the stacked bodies left alive, that much their enemies had made sure of, even if it meant ruining already dead flesh with gruesome and unnecessary brutality.

He only showed them a little less malevolence by not going back to mutilate their bodies after he’d killed them. He did have a schedule to keep, as he felt, as much as he would have liked to meet each blow with a return strike. There was simply not enough time, though there was more than enough of Loki to go around to take care of fools like these.

It took time to navigate the broken city, but even without former knowledge Loki managed to orient himself and quantify his surroundings with an acceptable amount of efficacy. Soon enough he came riding through lines of men battling in familiar armor, crying out hails as he rode through to assist them. He felt strangely glorified, and wondered if this was where a bit of Thor’s bravado came from; feeling the mightiest of one’s company and having them admit it openly and with much praise.

The idea of getting used to such grandeur didn’t suit him, though, so he kept focused on his task and did his best not to bask in any mock glory he might have felt otherwise. He still had the task of keeping him and Svaðilfari alive to focus on, as well as at some point locating Faramir so he could keep an eye on the wayward boy.

The help that he offered, however strong, did not seem to be substantial enough to drive back the burgeoning forces flowing in from the other side of the river. The men fought valiantly; the Rangers particularly intelligently, which was one of the many reasons why there were more of them remaining than the tin-clad soldiers that scattered too easily. When at last what was left of their dwindling force had been regrouped on the furthest reaches of the city, Loki had a grim idea that this battle would not end in victory. Even the one that was promised in forthcoming; as he recognized that this was but the first push to get men out of a stronghold. It was in Osgiliath that the enemy would encamp his forces, and not just one. All of the evil that he had amassed to destroy the world of men would march through the city they stood defending.

Striking out from a place of weakness was folly; especially with so few remaining and so little left to fight back for. Overrun and needing to heed proper strategy, they would have to retreat and make it back to the White City before the enemies destroyed them altogether. Gondor could suffer no such further loss of its men; not when the numbers were already against them. 

When finally he spotted Faramir amongst the crowd, a small twinge of relief ebbed through him. At least he’d made it thus far; and now that Loki could at least look on after him he could make sure that he made it a bit further. Hopefully as far as was possible for a mortal, if the small secretive caring part of Loki had its way.

Loki pushed Svaðilfari through the crowd, and for the most part the men parted themselves willingly in the hustle that was going on. The two of them brooked their way to where Faramir stood, half-elevated on a squat set of stairs to count the heads of his men who were trying to form some manner of garrison to defend themselves. Loki knew it would not last long enough to matter.

The look Faramir gave him when the Captain finally noted his approach was not one that pleased him. It was forlorn, understandably, but there was desperation there that did not sit well with Loki. It spoke of making foolish decisions to stoke one’s honor rather than making wise decisions for the preservation of life in the face of insurmountable battle.

“I fear we may have to retreat,” Faramir said, his voice raised in hopes that Loki could hear him over the din. He was still strong of word, but Loki could feel the faithless wavering in him of whether or not what he thought was right would be what his father thought was right.

Loki had fought that fight all his life, and had never once come out on top.

“You have no other option,” Loki barked back, severity in his clipped tone. The younger man looked to him in surprise, but Loki did not sway under the scrutiny. This was a severe situation, and none of them had any room to question themselves; Faramir unfortunately least of all. “If you stand and fight, it will be mere hours before the hoards of your enemy consume you entirely, along with what is left of this city. Give Gondor its soldiers; not its false sense of grandeur. Only the former will have any hope of winning this war.” The beginnings of light were shifting in the high clouds, but it was a tawdry thing, thin and without depth.

There was only a lingering brush of a glance where they met eye-to-eye before the fair-eyed youth sprang into action. His fell voice broke above the clamor, and Loki was reminded of a vague image, one written of in the lore of men. The high and mighty King; whose clear voice, terrible fury, and singing sword could mark down any foe put against him. Perhaps the bloodline of men had faded; perhaps they were a dying and unfortunate breed like so many of the higher races believed.

But more likely, it seemed, there was merely a new form of strength being born in them that their ancestors could never have dreamed of. If that was one charming thing about the race of mortals, it was that they were an incredibly fluid type of creature. Habitual beyond regard, but adaptable and stalwart sometimes in the most useful of ways.

Maybe Loki could get to actually like them by the end of this.

“Fall back!” their Captain ordered, his adjutants spreading the word like a hungry flame set to dry fuel through the city. “Fall back to Minas Tirith!”

Loki followed the flow of men as they made their ways to the far gates of the city, trailing after those headed to the stables more than those heading out on mere foot. He pitied them, but knew that those who had mounts could not wait. The horses were too important as a tool for the rest of Gondor; and could not be spared where it seemed to a point their soldiers could be. It was a cruel choice to be made, but war was by many definitions a thing of cruel necessity. It broke everything men thought they knew about themselves.

At last the city broke away into the open, and from a great distance Loki was finally able to take his first long look at Minas Tirith. It seemed an impossible distance away, but it beckoned, the City of Kings, with the licking white gleam in the morning as the hottest flame at the heart of space. Its seven tiers mounted as battlements upon one another, great spires drawing lattice lines up to the peaks of the mountains behind it, and the heavens then above even those. Spliced through the center like the heart of any great city was half of a mountain itself, upon which a great citadel sat far above even some low-lying clouds that trimmed the shoulders of the peaks with a silver haze.

‘So we meet at last,’ he thought, feeling an ancient craftsmanship about the city that its modern residents had lost. Even from great distance, it was easy to observe the skill with which it had been hewn, and the lack of upkeep it had withstood since. ‘I wish it were under happier circumstances, City of Kings.’

He had little time to think much else towards the city before an ear-shattering shriek rippled through the air. It was met by similar calls, each echoing about each other like the hunting cries of all things great, terrible, and excited. Loki looked over his shoulder to find the slowly brightening sky darkened beneath the great winged shape of a beast he had never before seen. Its great black leathery wings seemed to stretch on forever, casting everything beneath it in shadow.

The beastly creatures were not, however, Loki’s primary concern. Their horrible roaring and destruction that they brought as they dove into the fray was but a small thing to compare to the splintered evil that their riders were enshrouded in. They each of them, as there were but three, were like tiny little voids that swallowed up the magical fabric that the very presence of Middle Earth seemed to be made of, drawing it down into the penumbral nothing that their master chose to dwell in.

He heard one of the men cry out ‘Nazgul’, and knew that their flight to the city would not go unchallenged; these were the generals of the enemy, his viceroys of terror who flew on the wings of chaos and delivered news of his coming. Loki tightened the grip on his sword, finding the urge not to smile strangely absent from him. Usually he would have been delighted to see such things, as normally they were but pathetic copies of the sinister work he was so used to. But these were no pathetic copies; no watered down offshoot of the kind of chaos he ran with. These denizens were as deeply real as he was; their evil attached to the ancient beginnings so many had long since forgotten.

Hastened by the onslaught of their enemy’s generals, the charge of the men out of Osgiliath and onto the plains of Pelennor took mere moments to assemble. Loki waited, one of the last to leave the collection of men and mounts gathered around the stables, if only because he knew that he had to wait for Faramir to arrive. Come hell or these damnable wraiths, he would not be turned away from his one personal duty. Even if it was the only that he served in this Middle Earth, he would see it through to the end.

The hard gallop that he set Svaðilfari to was only so that he could keep what he felt to be a safe enough pace to get a decent enough start on the winged monsters. He knew that when they saw men fleeing their huntsman hearts would be gladdened at the thought of a chase, but Loki had no plans to die that day. Heimdall’s words rang in his head that no men planned to die, but to an extent Loki knew that not to be true.

He had planned on dying from his fall from the Bifrost; or at least a part of him had planned to die. Having that ideal taken from him, even if it was not his entire purpose had been a crushing blow. He had wanted, regardless of the side of him that could still make a plan and a scheme out of anything, to die. For many reasons great and broad, but had failed.

That hard endured life that he had now been given would not easily be taken away, however, and he switched the hand that bore his sword, knowing that at some time it may be more useful for him to sheath it and draw his bow than try to wield a weapon with such pitiable range.

Svaðilfari jerked hard to the right underneath him, and for a moment he panicked to hang on as the horse bolted. He did not bother to take the time to even mentally question why when not a moment later the sweeping black shape of one of the fell beasts careened into the hoard of men and horses fleeing towards the city. Some riders parted in time, others were far less fortunate as they were rolled beneath their mounts and carried off to their pitiable demises.

He breathed praises to the stallion, relief barely having time to wash through him before another great creature dove down to drive them into panic. This time he was ready, and held fast as Svaðilfari moved to take them out of the way of harm. Loki was finding it hard to keep track of who had been plucked off and who was still riding, but managed to spot Faramir before his mind froze.

The truth of the matter was that it was not only his mind that froze. It felt as if the entire scope of the world had stopped hard in its place, and would never move again. His own heartbeat thundered in his ears, but it beat so slowly that he was not sure if that was what he was even hearing. Perhaps it was that he wasn’t so sure anymore whether or not he had a heart. Perhaps then it was a slow drumming the rang in his ears; the beat of the heart at the dark center of the world.

The silence was shrill in between drumbeats, and he wished there were some air he could breathe in the tepid stillness of this mental wasteland. He turned his head, seeking to look for whatever it was that had done this to him; for whatever had exerted such power over him as to confound his godly senses into such extreme tumult.

The ferocity of the flame that met his vision was nearly blinding, but he could no sooner blink than he could look away from it. Sheathed in a wreath of undulating flame was a great eye, and the long slit pupil thinned as he looked upon it.

**_You have seen the Void._ **

All else was drowned out beneath the great voice, but strangely upon hearing it Loki did not feel dispirit. Some minuscule part of him felt heartened, for the depth of the darkness and evil of this creature, Sauron as he knew its name to be, for when to great powers speak to one another openly they cannot but boast their own titles, was but a small and trivial thing compared to the evil that had come before. He knew in that moment, and he felt it through the earth beneath him that the greater evil was nigh absent from this passing turmoil, save in its ever piercing gaze from within its deep prison. 

The Void, it seemed, was a thing of great fear to this bastard son, and even to his father it was a place of mystery and unattainable power.

_Yes._

And now Sauron, Deceiver and Lesser Son, knew that Loki had passed through the Void. But there was nothing that Loki could do but guess at what that could push the other evil to do, especially when faced with the mercurial chaos that Loki embodied.

He did not know if it was a corporeal smile that he gave, but he knew that wherever it was, it was as cruel a thing as he wished it to be, and when he looked back at the eye it seemed dimmer, unknowing now as it gazed upon him rather than he it was who was gazing unknowing. 

_And I do not fear you._

As quickly as a bolt of lightning across a darkened sky, Middle Earth swung back into motion. Loki was jolted as Svaðilfari, as if sensing his trouble and his turmoil but a moment too late, bolted forward, pulling with reckless abandon to the front of the charging force as the better part of their journey drew near. With almost detached control Loki did his best to reign in the worried animal, but he became aware that his own strife had not been the only thing to draw Svaðilfari forward with such haste.

Riding towards them, though at a decently great distance, was a white-swathed rider with great apparent intent. In a winking moment of clarity a great white light shone from the white-rider’s uplifted staff, so blinding it was that it far outshone the meager flame that Loki’s eyes had witnessed but seconds before. This great power, however, was to their benefit, as at the sight of it the Nazgul pulled away with a chorus of enraged shrieking.

The pulling away of their pursuers, however, was much less heeded by him than the primary fact that came dawning at the sight of the rider. Or, rather, not at the sight of him, but at the feel of him: the feel of his magics as they poured out from him over the land and air about and beneath. Loki knew the feel of those magics, almost as well as he knew his own.

Somehow, someway, this great white figure was a figure from his long forgotten childhood. One whom, unlike many others, had only ever served to encourage and enlighten him for what he was, rather than what he was not.

But how Olórin had come not only out of Middle Earth but so far into the Nine Realms as to have found Loki as a young boy he could not fathom. And with a newfound intent to add to his short list of things to mind while in Middle Earth, Loki set to follow after the white rider, a great many questions on his mind and a new curious hope in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that Olórin is the name that Gandalf used while he was one of The Maia, which was when he was considerable younger than he is personified in the Lord of the Rings and in The Hobbit. More extrapolation on that topic will be given in later chapters.


	6. Part V

When the monstrous gates of the city of kings closed behind them, the ringing in Loki’s ears finally began to fade. To stare in the eye of evil itself was a rare and daunting privilege, to walk away an even greater and laudable feat. Still, he felt little need to celebrate his interaction with Sauron, perhaps because there was no one there to really share the experience with who would not turn against him in spite or fear.

Then he heard a fell voice calling over the men, and knew that was not true.

He had the greatest being alive at his disposal. Olorín, the influence of his youth and the savior of his young wandering days, would be the perfect outlet for all of the pent up wreckage that he’d been dragging around this Middle Earth. Faramir had put forth a valiant attempt to console him, and to draw out the best of his mores, but had only marginally succeeded.

Then again, he thought, perhaps he had no more mores to even offer. In which case both Faramir and Olorín would be horridly disappointed, and Loki would be able to revel in his lackluster state of existence.

Nudging Svaðilfari to follow after Faramir, Loki did his best to contain a smile as he ducked under the hood of his cloak. Letting Olorín see him immediately would be too easy: he had a touch of the dramatic and when he could he would still implement it until it was pried from his cold boring body. In the wings he waited, just short of the haunches of Faramir’s horse.

The young Gondorian ranger spoke to the wizard for a time, before going startlingly quiet. Loki peered over his shoulder, only to be startled himself. Sitting in front of the wizard, and looking just as confused, was yet another Halfling. Never in all his life had he ever seen so many of them in so short a time, but he found that the more they appeared among the world of the big folk, the more they impressed upon him. He might even get to actively liking them soon if he was not careful.

Adeptly picking up on Faramir’s shock, Olorín’s old withered features brightened with hope. “You’ve seen Frodo and Sam?” the little Halfling in front of him asked with excitement.

“Where? When?” the sage wizard questioned, and Faramir seemed to need to catch his breath in order to answer properly.

“In Ithilien,” he responded, his light eyes still locked on the Shireling, “not two days ago.”

In spite of the moment of joy, Loki felt Faramir’s demeanor shift downward into something more serious. He could guess what, but he chose to remain silent until a moment opened up for him to occupy. In the moment stretching between them all, Faramir explained with gravity the road that the hobbits intended to take in order to reach their destination in the land of fire.

The hapless hobbit in front of Olorín stared blankly between them, in spite of the fact that immediate understanding dawned on the rider with him. The relief and joy quickly festered on the old man’s face, and Loki scowled. The old spirit had undergone enough turmoil, even when Loki had met him as a young lad. He could only as another ageless being imagine how tired all the strains after must have made him.

“Faramir, tell me everything,” the white bearded wizard implored, and Faramir nodded. He might as well have been promising his word, but Loki saw his opportunity in the slight hesitance that the ranger showed as he tried to gather his thoughts on what needed to be said, and what could be said in such mixed company.

“That may take several days, old friend,” he said over his shoulder, and the white wizard’s sharp eyes snapped to him with a cutting glance. When they failed to penetrate what of his face could be seen, Faramir offered a bit of explanation.

The young Gondorian turned so he was facing them all, though Loki was still only facing them on the side. “Gandalf, this is my companion. He joined us at Amon Din, before the beacons were lit. He… made a rather interesting appearance for himself.”

The old man’s grizzly eyebrows rose, though the rest of his expression failed to look even the slightest bit impressed. “Oh?” he intoned, and the hobbit in front of him could not help a little smile.

At that moment, Loki threw back his hood and have his most dazzlingly mischievous smile. “Hello again, Olorín. The Halls of Mandos are long behind us, but never far from our hearts, I am sure.”

A painful moment of silence passed between them, fleeting, but filled with the sort of blank forgetfulness that had so characterized his childhood. So few noticed the comings and goings of the trickster that the same blank look had trailed after him more times than he cared to count, in spite of the fact that he had counted anyway.

That painful moment was worth enduring, however, only for what replaced that blank look once the age-old power finally dredged up those far memories. The shock, the remembrance, and the joy that took over that man made every moment of the past few hundred years worth the wait. “Loki!” Gandalf exclaimed, and the white horse beneath him skipped sideways at the bidding of its master to draw them closer together.

When he was close enough the old wizard reached out a war-calloused hand to rest it on his cheek in an old show of affection. “Loki,” he repeated again, as if the name and the memories confused him so. “What has become of you?” he murmured as the pad of his old thumb brushed under the deep shadows undoubtedly beneath his eyes. “Where have you been?”

“I could ask the same of you, old man.” Shifting beneath his heavy cloak and armor, he slowly edged out of the wizard’s gentle touch. “You have not been idly sitting at your mantle waiting for old wayward boys to come and steal your books.”

“No,” the wizard agreed. “I stopped bothering when I realized you would come and steal them anyway. And heaven help anyone who tried to steal them from you. Besides, they could never come to rest in better or more talented hands than yours.”

Old gray eyes flitted down to those hands, and Loki let them clench around Svaðilfari’s mane. “And to my eyes, unlike the last time we met, they have seen their fair share of war.”

“They have the strength for one more at least, Olorín. Faramir speaks truly: I have come to this world by means of my own doing, but I will stay because of the word that I have given to this young Captain. My assistance, for whatever it is worth, has been promised to the glory of Gondor,” Loki explained, palming the pommel of his sword.

Gandalf scoffed, and the little hobbit in his lap looked at him with as much of a scowl as his cherubic face could manage. “Oi,” the Halfling said, his arms crossed over his small chest plate. “ _I’m_ here for the glory of Gondor.”

That earned a short laugh from all of them, and Loki noted with interest the softness that the comment kindled in the ranger’s eyes. “As well you are welcomed for doing so, little one,” Loki said, and the hobbit nodded at him commandingly. He’d never felt so lauded, in spite of the fact that the little man was likely only a third his size.

He doubted anymore that even Olorín was taller.

Back when he was a child the pilgrim had seemed as tall as the mountains, as old as the seas, and as melodious as winter snowfall. Everything about him had been magic and wonder, and his young mind had been dying in the desperate scrabble to pick apart and understand what constituted that wonder.

The wonder that he had emulated, he feared now, was much less savory in nature.

“I like this one,” the little blond asserted, pointing a stout finger in Loki’s direction. “He’s a man of sense, I can tell.”

With a genuine laugh Loki extended a welcoming hand to the Halfling. And though his long fingers dwarfed the hobbit’s, the heart in the gesture was still potent enough to be worth the effort. “Come, Olorín,” he said, looking to the wizard. “I feel that we have much to discuss, and much to do in order to determine what we need to do.”

The resounding silence from Faramir caught his attention immediately, and he waited, observing the man until he had gathered up his wits and explained the hesitance that locked out around his shoulders and kept his chin set.

Faramir’s gaze turned to Loki first, and remained looking him in the eye until he sighed and closed his eyes, looking positively pained. If Loki had not kept a hawk’s eye watch on him, he would have thought the man seriously injured. “Loki, though you have proved your word to me, in order to prove yourself to Gondor you will have to make an appeal before my father.”

Gandalf snarled at the thought, and shook his head vigorously. “I cannot allow that, Faramir. Your father may be Steward, but he is not King,” he growled. “Regardless of status and loyalty your father will treat him with reproach and condemnation.” The wizard cast a glance to him, worry in his eyes. It was something that Loki had grown unaccustomed to seeing in the glances directed at him. “In this instance, my boy, knowing me will do nothing for your reputation.

“It rarely does,” he responded idly, and that earned him one of the knowing smiles Olorín had given him so often in his youth.

“But what Faramir proposes cannot be avoided, I feel,” Loki continued, and all three of them seemed surprised at his assent to see the Steward. “It may not have passed by your attention, Olorín, but the Steward has sight beyond his means. My presence has likely already come to his attention, and rankled his already clouded thoughts. You have already spoken to him, which will do nothing for his temperament, but I must stand for the laws of this land, whatever they may be.”

Off in another tier of the city, a bell rang, its echo reverberating over the deeps. Many of the men milling around them seemed startled by it, and Loki wondered how common it was across the times and spaces of the universe to silence the bells for war.

Personally, he liked the gesture. He liked wars that were quiet.

Wars that were loud usually ended loudly: whether from fire or lamentation, they were always deafening. Thor fought wars that were loud. He was a thunderclap in a quiet sky. Loki was the wind in the trees, the whispering presence that lingered around graves and in shadows that made one never really feel alone and unwatched.

“I will speak with my father,” Faramir said, his voice dull and lusterless. “If he chooses to summon you, it will be soon, and it will not be pleasant.”

Loki tried his best to assure the Captain with a smile, but he was not in the habit of reassuring people with open shows of emotion, even fake ones. Faramir seemed to at least catch his intention, and managed a weak smile in return. “I will weather whatever storms come my way,” he assured, glancing at his fellow sorcerer. “I have had plenty of time to practice.”

The old man huffed a bit at him, but did not smile beneath his beard. “Faramir, I would like to borrow some time with Loki before Pippin and I proceed to the citadel. I must speak to your father, but there are many questions that I would ask of your companion before I proceed.” The Captain looked between the two of them, as if trying to wrap his head around what manner of connection would bring the unlikely pair together. “I have not seen him in a long time,” the old man added. “There is much that I have to say.”

“As do we all, when it comes to Loki,” Faramir agreed, before reaching out a hand to the hobbit. “Come with me, little one. I will show you to my city.”

In a swift, smooth movement the Gondorian lifted the hobbit, still clutching his arm, from the back of Gandalf’s pristine white steed and swung him onto his own. The hobbit, for his part in the transaction, reacted relatively calmly, though he seemed relieved to be settled in the front of a saddle rather than trying to cling bareback as Gandalf was much more adept and trained to do.

“I know you will find me when you have finished your business,” Faramir said, “but do try to keep from causing trouble to what extent you can manage. You both have good reputations for now, and I would have you keep them that way.”

This time, Loki did nothing to keep his smile from looking as devious as he could physically manage. Faramir pointed an accusing finger at him before deciding better of it and turning away with a withering sigh. Pippin was laughing at them all, but waved a goodbye salute to Loki and cast a nervous glance to Gandalf as they disappeared into the throng.

“Loki,” Gandalf said warningly after a moment, and Loki nudged Svaðilfari to follow after the white horse of his mentor, “Denethor will likely cast you out of Minas Tirith. I can practically guarantee it, given the degradation of his mind.”

“I know.”

The old man halted his steed and turned around to look at him. Loki looked back calmly, doing his best to remain expressionless. The wizard’s raised brows and general look of disbelief bade him to explain himself, and at that he couldn’t help a small smirk. Even as a child he’d learned to obey that lo when it was given to him, due to Olorín finding out what he wanted to know one way or another.

With him, unlike anyone else in the universe, it was far simpler and far easier to tell the truth.

“Suspicions,” he began, drawing up so that they rode side by side, “began to form in my mind as soon as I noted the disappearance of some of the scouts. Faramir is an apt and attentive Captain. His watches do not go without productivity; that he makes sure of. So why would some men retreat into the darkness and return days later but for the sake of sending news to Minas Tirith? My suspicions have been affirmed by the nights that I have kept watch.

“You always taught me to know and be aware of when I am being observed. It has served me well in years previous, and it has served me well here in Middle Earth. On the nights when I have stayed up to watch I have been very much aware of long moments when an eye was cast towards me. Said eye was not a welcoming one.”

Olorín hummed at him, and as they drew towards the stables he cast his ancient gaze towards the young vagrant that Loki still felt to be. “I find only one discrepancy with your account, Loki.”

That managed to startle him, and he looked at his mentor in only thinly veiled confusion.

“You have not slept since you arrived,” the wizard said, and Loki realized where he had left a hole for the truth to slip through his fingers. “You have not stayed up some of the nights you spent trekking through the garden of Gondor: you have remained awake through all of them.” The look of almost condescending concern on his face would have made Loki want to hurt him if it had been anyone else. “When was the last time you let your dreams relieve you, Loki?”

That set the once-King quiet, and he settled into his silence to ponder that query. He knew that lying and counting unconsciousness as sleep would go nowhere in the eyes of the man next to him, but beyond that eternity of darkness and falling he could not think of a night when he had slept. Every painstaking moment spent on the throne in Asgard had set him reeling into a rage and paranoia fueled sleeplessness that exceeded his usual insomniac habits.

“Dreams have the tendency of dying, Olorín,” he murmured, and dismounted before he could find anything more pitifully sentimental to say about the matter. To his credit the old wizard let him, and they tended their horses in a silence that was unfitting for their kinship.

When they reconvened outside of the stable, his old mentor put a comforting hand at his shoulder that he only allowed out of exhaustion. “As must we all, Loki. But I have found that our dreams are what continue on in our stead after death. Our dreams are what others remember us by.”

That wisdom left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he scowled as they walked together into the more quiet hollows of the great city. The only dream that would characterize his death was likely to be his zealotry and the violent chaos that came with it.

He had never been much of one for blatant positive contribution. Subtlety was his trade, even if it took time to steep and mature.

“What have you done that has set you into so drawn and closed a mindset?” the Maia questioned, and Loki could hear now that there was frustration in his voice. For some reason he thought himself at rights to be indignant over the death of the small child that he had known so long ago. Loki did not have the strength or the stamina to shake him off and listened instead. “The child that stole into the Halls of Mandos to listen to the songs of the ancient was not one I would ever have thought to be so threatened by fear of the darkness.”

He whipped to look at the old man, his lips pressed thin. For a moment he was genuinely shaken, and they stood beneath a white stone archway staring at one another until he found his voice. “You do not know of what you speak,” he whispered harshly, and felt that little coiling flame of reckless abandon kindle in his chest, next to where the panic and the hurt fluttered against his heart.

“Oh but I do,” the wizard asserted strongly, his eyes fiery. “I have strayed through thought and time to the very heart of existence itself, Loki. You cannot hide from me that you have fallen through the void only to come torn apart at the furthest end of it. You cannot hide that it has wounded you, nor that you have wounded yourself.”

Loki had not wept since that hellish blur of white and red and rage at the wrong end of the broken Bifrost, but a tear escaped him then that he could not hold back.

With a smile that felt like shattered glass against his lips, he cast a vapid laugh at his old mentor. “Such a shame,” he said, and much to his detached chagrin his voice was broken and hoarse. “Hiding was all I was ever really good at. Without that, I’m just-”

“Loki.”

Focus returned to him, and he waited for the old white wizard to explain.

“No matter who you are, or where you go, or what you learn, you are always Loki,” the old man explained, much like he would have explained a more complex twist of magic to the child side of Loki that he obviously so cherished. “And as mercurial and complex as you are, the universe would be impacted by your absence. As I would be.”

He could not help but growl past his smile at that. “You flatter as ever, Olorín,” he conceded grudgingly, “but that does not mean that your arguments hold as much fire as you believe they do. You say the universe would be impacted, but you do not say _how_. That is a very vague way to treat a dangerous man, don’t you think?”

“No,” the wizard said simply. “I think it is the truthful way to treat a free man.”

Unable to help the response, his fists clenched tightly. Had he Svaðilfari’s mane in his hands he would undoubtedly have hurt the poor creature. But even loosening his fists left his hands stiff and shaking off the urge to wrap around something else for the only purpose of breaking it. “Freedom,” he murmured, “is life’s great lie.”

Without another word the old man bade him follow, his great imperial staff clacking along with their heels as he delved them deeper into the bowels of Minas Tirith. Where once he was sure the city smelled of clean sea air and a country garden’s breeze, now it only smelled of the death, dust, and filth that it had fallen into. In spite of himself he felt his scowl and thunderous mood growing deeper and darker, glowing eye in the east or no.

“Then you needlessly shackle yourself, to allow your contempt to perpetuate.” Loki could barely contain his disdain as they strode past a shop that for all obvious intents and purposes proclaimed to sell a professional assortment of rats and various byproducts. Ignoring his once-teacher was difficult for him, especially when that same voice had recounted lessons and adventures in his mind a thousand million times since their last parting. He found those lessons and stories some of the easiest to remember, if only because that voice told them so candidly and so well. “You are a creature of your own habit, Loki. You always have been. What you need to understand, and what you will learn, is that this polarity that exists in your temperament is an integral part of who you are.”

Apparently having reached his destination, the great old sage whirled on him, his white cloak billowing wide as his arms opened in a show of some point or another. “What would Loki be if not both fire and ice? The wind and the rain? The rage and the sadness?”

“If you mean to imply that if I was anything less than what I am, I reserve the right to accuse you of being sentimental,” he warned, not stepping closer to the sorcerer in spite of his impulse to do so. But the longer he waited the less reason he found to resist, and finally he allowed himself a moment of sentimentality. But only one.

That moment, however, was plenty. Without asking or needing to be asked Gandalf stepped forward and embraced his lost apprentice, gently, airily to a point. For that Loki was grateful: he had felt shackled by so many of the influences in his life, both machinated by himself and otherwise, that feeling trapped in an embrace would have likely ended in a bloody mess on the walls, Olorín or no.

They parted just as easily, and Loki breathed in the night air with closed eyes and an opening mind. “Then again,” he said, still not opening his eyes, “perhaps I could be accused of the same.”

“That you most certainly could, young man.” The indignation in his voice was followed swiftly by a crack to the head from his staff, at which point Loki reopened his misty eyes and stared at the other magician in unabashed shock, mouth agape and all. The old sage looked tempted to crack a smile, but resisted and remained stern. “And don’t think you growing up has done anything for your impishness, because you are just as bad now as you ever were!”

Loki smirked at him, but took a step back to avoid the staff just in case it decided to swing his way again. “Was it not you who just a moment ago was extolling the virtues of being what I am and nothing less?”

“Admittedly, those were poorly chosen words to be said around one so selectively impish,” the white wizard allowed, though he kept his grip on his staff keen. “I can only hope that you intent to stay as true to your word to Faramir as you are in your word to me. We will need that impishness on our side if we can keep it.”

“This war has gone on for many ages,” Loki said, and his old master nodded in gruff agreement. “Though this darkness’ master yet waits beneath the earth, in moments its old power bleeds up and into the world. What was the word of Eru? That the darkness would be vacated when the world is ended?”

The little glimmer in those old gray eyes told him that his old teacher was proud to know that at least some of his words had been used and remembered in good use. “And on such a day, my boy, you will have outlasted all but the men, whose fate not even the Ainur can descry.”

Loki chuckled morosely, and crossed his arms over the chest plate of his borrowed armor as the thunder clapped so loudly as to set the mountain beneath them shaking. He thought of Thor, and their parting with equal measures of hate and fear.

“You believe in me too much, Olorín. For on that day, I believe with all the heart that remains in me that I will surely be dead,” he intoned, and ran his thumb along the pale, faint links of mail that were all that kept that heart from falling dead from his chest. “I am not made to outlast anyone. Rather, to return more times than they anticipate. That keeps them on their toes, anyway.”

“And you believe too little,” Gandalf said and closed his eyes in thought. “You will survive our war, Loki, if we do. However I do not know if you will survive someone else’s.” The old man looked to him keenly. “Given that, I hope that you will be prepared to face the Steward’s questionable wrath towards you. If he has taken note or offense at you at all, it will not be a pretty affair.”

“You forget, Olorín, how often I have faced down the wrath of Odin, let alone the wrath of Frigg. I have no fear of a little man with a little throne who believes himself to be big. Not when I have sat on that same seat myself,” he assured, and the old wizard rested a hand on his shoulder. The darkness around them was deepening at a blistering rate, save for the crimson glow in the east that caused the stars to be blotted out.

Yet some light remained, off in the distance: Amon Din still shone, and all of the other beacons that led all the way to Rohan glinted against the oncoming darkness. Somehow, Loki sensed that the people of the great city could not see those little lights, promising them hope and assistance. They were cursed to the depths of their despair by an aggressive old curmudgeon who was more fond of condemning his son than he was uplifting his country.

The Valkyries would never have allotted him a place in Valhalla, should he have even had the decency to die in battle. That thought startled Loki for a moment, and he wondered what strange circumstance he had gotten himself into where he would think so freely of such a strange thing.

He supposed then that it was only natural that he would naturally not have assumed that his end would be in a battle far more fitted to Thor. His end was supposed to be a quiet, unglorified affair: an intellectual battle against the sword of the mind, not the sword of the hand.

Perhaps the Norns had simply decided that something else was in his fates than that. It would not be unlike them to do so, no matter how hard he tried to be the navigator of his own fate.

“Do not forsake every lesson that your mother and father taught you, Loki,” Gandalf advised. “Though much has changed between you, there is much of your past that needn’t be tampered with because of such events.” With a sigh, the old man withdrew his hand before Loki had the chance to swat it away petulantly himself. “And whether you intend to or not, you will, in the end, make them proud. Much as you would like to spite their love and affections.”

“How would you know?” he snarled back, stepping away in a whirl of his own cloak.

“Because you have done the same for me,” the wizard said with an unabashed twinkling in his eyes. It was the same mischievous twinkling that Loki was sure he himself had exhibited many times. “You likely have not intended to do so, and I am sure you would have preferred to let me down and allow yourself to wallow in my disappointment, yet you have not managed to do so. It is, however, very like you to be so very complicated about it.”

Loki scoffed, but did not argue with him further. “At least I have some character to speak of.”

“It is that character that is going to cause you trouble, if it is the face you put towards the Steward. He will meet with Pippin tomorrow morning for his indoctrination into the Tower Guard. Your appointment will be afterwards, most likely. I would recommend speaking only when the Steward has his mouth full and is unable to interrupt you,” Gandalf murmured, watching with sharp eyes as lightening danced high in the clouds over them. 

“If there is one thing you can always rely upon me to do, Olorín,” Loki said with a smirk blatantly monopolizing his face, “it is to orate in whatever way serves my own benefit.”

The dim morning on the citadel was not the most gallant or promising moment of his life. He appeared to Gandalf’s advisement long before his appointment in order to observe in his own way the proceedings of Gondor’s only anchor. From the way the servants came and went with gray faces and needlessly laden arms, he could only scowl disapprovingly and wait to see the man who deigned to have the power to decide his fate. Even in Asgard Odin had at least possessed the decency to treat and reward his service people respectably. Their robes were provided for and their housing managed. These poor peons who bustled about with their arms full of succulent food not found anywhere else in the war-starved city bore clothes full of wear and decrepit mending.

Kings had no right to sit in opulence when their children were starving to death.

It was only when the young hobbit and the grave-faced Captain emerged from the hall of the Steward did he begin to grasp the severity of the situation. Without hardly a word from his talkative lips and tears in his eyes the hobbit went in search of Gandalf, who much like him was undoubtedly lurking the wings nearby.

Before Faramir could storm off to his undeniable doom, however, Loki caught him by the elbow and drew him into an enclave with every intention of extracting the truth from him. Even in his relative finery, Faramir looked the part of a dead soldier reanimated, only to walk back into his grave again.

“Before you sink into your suicidal reverie,” Loki said, and Faramir’s gaze hardly stirred to even look at him. The death of the decency in such a man stirred a wrath in him that was highly unlikely to remain chained. “Know that whatever the proceedings of your father, I will remain true to my word to my Captain.”

Not even a fleeting flicker of encouragement stirred in the young Gondorian.

“We all meet our deaths,” he said listlessly, before drawing away from Loki entirely. “Some timed as they should be, others unfortunately traded. I can ask no more of you than what you are willing, and will expect no more than my father asks.”

Before Loki could loose his rage, Faramir departed, his shoulders squared but his head bowed. With a burning at the back of his mind and a locked jaw, Loki proceeded with all presence into the throne room where the Steward remained, still possessing the audacity to eat as a swine in the troughs of another stable.

“So you are the interloper,” the graying man drawled, his hands framing a pewter plate only just emptied of its niceties. A pinprick on his lip bled down his chin, but his eyes were coolly vacant save for the prejudice in his eyes. “The fair, dark stranger from the forests who comes with the wizard.”

“You should be aware of something about wizards.” Prowling forward on feet purposefully soundless in the echoing hall, “Do not meddle in their affairs, for they are subtle and quick to anger. Angering the wrong wizard may indeed be the end of you.”

If the unwholesome grimace on the old man’s face was any indication, he had not been expecting such gall and resistance so immediately. Then a trenchant little smile oozed over his face. “So you too are a wizard,” he said, his voice dark with ill-will. “What fortune, to come upon two of them in such close conjunction to one another.”

“I have watched you, _Loki_.” He spat out the name as if it was poisonous to him. “I care not where you have come from nor where you intend to go, but I will not have you tampering with the tides of this war. That, to my experience, is also something that wizards tend to do. And I care not for the one that is milling around in my city, and care even less for the one who has fallen into the lap of my land at the most convenient moment. I do not trust your intentions, and even less your integrity.”

“As well you should, old man,” Loki snarled, his voice echoing in the hall. “But your visions of grandeur and antiquity cloud your grasp of the presence of your people. They die for you, and you leave them to their graves while your eyes turn blindly toward an artifact that abuses you more than it serves. It seems to be in your habit to favor things which pain you rather than value that which strengthens. Since the Kin Strife your kingdom has fallen into ruin, and its leaders with it.”

“Do not speak to me of history!” The Steward rose as his bellowed back, his immaculate robes falling about him like a funerary veil. “Do not speak to me of the glory of my forefathers, when such learning does not become you when it is all a petty sham to usurp me.”

Loki let out a howling laugh, which seemed to unsettle the old Gondorian more than anything he had otherwise said. “I have lusted after a throne, old man” he whispered harshly, “I have no need for yours. What I have need of, only conceptually, is the freedom to assist in saving your city from its certain doom.”

The Steward sneered at him, but settled back down into his seat. “Your loyalty to Faramir thus far has proved nothing to me,” he grumbled, plucking more food from the table before him that he would undoubtedly not eat but instead would only use for a distraction to hide his growingly uneasy hands. “It has proved nothing to Gondor, no matter your associations.”

“If,” he said casting a lazy but triumphant glance at Loki, “you wish to prove yourself, do something useful: ride out and search for the riders of Rohan. If they have not abandoned us. And if you fail, never enter my city again.”

Loki’s fists clenched at his sides, but he could see how he might turn the order to his advantage. “If any rumor that I have heard is true, that banishment will be no hardship,” he said demurely. “Your King rides for this room, and I mean to let him in.”

That finally managed to incite the madman to rise again, and he flung out a finger to the door, crying that Loki leave his halls with all hasted, and that an armed escort would insure of his exit by sunset. With no hurry and no sense of fear, Loki exited at his own leisure, leaving he and the Steward to stare at one another for a long moment.

Loki would never admit while he lived that the cruel old man sitting in that black and white hall made him reconsider his own father, nor would he ever actively allow it to modify his behavior, petty though it was. Pain was unilateral: circumstance made wounded of them all, and his own wounds were still too raw to brush over with a fine powder and pretend that they had vanished.

At the end of the citadel, the wizard stood, overlooking the seven tiered city as his cloak billowed in the wind. Loki strode up to him, his steps clipped and his thoughts whirling. His eyes flung out over the plains, and to the smoking ruins of Ithilien where the enemy sat lurking, waiting to strike out.

“He sends his only resources to death and ruin,” Gandalf said without turning. His voice was almost lost on the wind, but Loki caught it before it was stripped away. Finally the other wizard turned to him. “Faramir rides out with the only false hope Denethor still possesses. It will be the destruction of the last hope for Gondor if he does.”

“I ride out also, Olorín,” Loki said, though the older sage did not bother to look surprised. “But I ride to the east, to find this company you have sent for. The Steward claims that if I locate their defenses and bring them to Minas Tirith that my loyalty will be proven.”

Suspicion littered the white pilgrim’s features. “Denethor will do no such thing.”

Loki shrugged. “Of course he will not,” he agreed. “But in all truth I hope him to be dead by the time I return. And Olorín, I _will_ return.” He let their eyes meet for a long moment, and the old man seemed comforted by whatever it was he saw.

“I do not need to tell you to ride swiftly,” Gandalf said, and drew him alongside as they made to leave the empty citadel of Gondor. “But I will tell you to ride fiercely. The enemy has noticed you, and will not allow you to interfere.”

“I am prepared to defend my oaths, White One,” Loki assured. “What few of them I risk giving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot apologize enough for the egregious lateness of this chapter and of the updates of my fics, but I can update and do so more frequently over the summer, which is my intention. Please enjoy and try to read kindly if you can.


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